Saturday, 10 March 1877

I was hunting with my father and shot a pigeon, but having shot it I realised it was only wounded, and that it was not a pigeon at all, though it had that appearance, but was Larderel. 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. There 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. She wears extravagant costumes. Let her 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 Larderel; 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 Ruffo, Muliterno, Massimo, and a chimerical Borghese seemed to be looking away; and but for Merisano one would have taken them for people who were staring at you.
written across the page
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 respectable women.
A country of cheats.

Notes

Sappho (Marie’s Sapho): an opera on the Greek poetess Sappho; at a Neapolitan theatre this was possibly Giovanni Pacini’s Saffo (Naples, Teatro San Carlo, 1840), a staple of the Italian repertory, rather than Gounod’s Sapho (Paris, 1851). The production has not been verified. (Sources: en.wikipedia «Saffo (Pacini)»: premiere Teatro San Carlo, Naples, 29 November 1840; en.wikipedia «Sapho (Gounod)»: premiere Paris Opéra, 16 April 1851.) ↩
In French in the original: comme il faut. ↩