Saturday, 10 March 1877

I was hunting with my father and shot a pigeon, but having shot it I realized it was only wounded, and that it was not a pigeon at all, though it had that appearance, but was Larderei. You can imagine my distress — I called a doctor who promised me he would recover, after which I went and threw pieces of ice into a cauldron of boiling water. Such is a dream that proves I go to bed when decent people are rising.
At my request, Walitsky consulted a fortune-teller who has all of Nice running to him — he tells fortunes by melted wax poured into water. Here it is:
— "The person on whose behalf you have come is far away, in a mountainous country. He wears extravagant clothes. She should beware of a dark man who will never leave his first passion."
On this, half in jest and half in earnest, I write a letter of abuse to the wretched doctor, and sit down to write these pages to restore my spirits, which are in a strange state on account of this prediction. I would be capable of marrying someone else simply in order to take him back by force from that woman.
I am so greedy for everything, so vain, so mercenary, so base, so envious, that the day Borghese went to his rendezvous, I was jealous of the woman — I who have never set eyes on either the prince or her. A lesson for those who believed my jealousy over Audiffret sprang from love.
"Who will never leave his first passion" — this need not be Larderei; it may be another dark man whose first passion is perhaps me, which is why I should be on my guard... This can be interpreted in several ways; the ancient oracles accustomed us to such equivocations.
In this rain one wants nothing — it is fortunate, but stupefying.
This evening is the opening of the Teatro del Fondo, with Sappho. We go in two boxes with the Hamontoffs, the Fabbricatores, and Nasimoff. A charming evening which I spend sneezing, coughing, and blowing my nose, while Merisano — both elbows fixed on the edge of his box and opera glasses trained on me — stirs only to make occasional exclamations to his companion. Antonelli's performance was a mere jest by comparison, so that the third one — Ruffo, Muliterno, Massimo, and a chimerical Borghese — appeared to be turning away; and without Merisano one would take them for people who merely happen to look at you.
[Written across: It was the real Borghese.]
And at the exit and everywhere. And then more Italian intrigues — a prince, it appears, followed us in his carriage and then someone came to the hotel asking who we are and whom we know. This story dates from the day before yesterday and I have it from Rosalie. Our dresses and our opulent manner command respect — without that one would not be approached so in Naples. One sends one's cards — speaking of cards, we have received those of the Marchese Santasiglia — one sends one's cards, or one addresses you in the street, all while being quite convinced that you are comme il faut women.
Country of tricksters.

Notes

Sappho: opera by Gounod (1851), based on the life of the Greek poetess.