Wednesday, 7 March 1877

This morning I was woken at seven o'clock. Borghese was to go to a rendezvous with a society woman outside the city, and I wanted to go out at the same time to see him. But he left at half past six — when the servant entered his room at six o'clock, he was already up.
With a society woman — how charming! And Larderei, who might have... debases himself with Madam the Hussy and bows before Monsieur the coachman.
For the first time since Pelikan, I went out on foot, and having met the Hamontoffs we went to see a painting studio — Maman, myself and the Hamontoffs.
Financial complications arise because of a crate arriving for me from Paris! The most odious thing! Because Maman complains. Complaints only make everything worse — one pays and forgets and all is well. I know quite well that one is left penniless, but it happens so often and is so habitual a thing, and one knows so well it is only a matter of time, that lamenting is truly stupid.
The Fabbricatore young women came to call.
This evening at the première of Aida, I appeared for the first time in a low-cut dress — a white sicilienne gown, bodice laced in front to a point. The opera glasses worked with remarkable unanimity until the end of the evening. I was bored nonetheless, despite Nasimoff, who is a monkey in ugliness and an angel in kindness.
In the stalls I picked out Don Giovanni Borghese, who was accused of being more handsome than Larderei.
An ill-founded accusation, because this Roman has the type of his city: excessively black hair, parted at the nape by a line that runs to the forehead, where the hair forms two points after first puffing slightly at the crown. A long and circumspect nose, not quite distinguished; eyes that look downward and are not very large; a black brush mustache; a black point between the lip and chin; superb hands like Pizzardi; tall, with a slow and affected gait. In short, Antonelli writ large, harder, and consequently uglier, since Antonelli's chief charm was an air of almost feminine languor. And then a small mouth with thin, remarkably fresh lips — though they are only pink.
It is an eternal memory — shameful and burning. Why? Because as long as one is a girl one never knows whether one loves or whether... it is cynical, but true.

Notes

Madame la Coquine: Marie's contemptuous nickname for Larderei's mistress, literally "Madam the Hussy."