Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 17 March 1877

The letter left at seven in the evening for Florence.
I remain at home painting caricatures of Melissano, who is kind enough to pose beneath my window, and of others, when Rosalie comes to kneel beside the easel and begins one of those conversations I love so much.
— No matter — Monsieur the Count, I adore him since he wrote with his left hand. And since I now see that all of this is true, I am going to tell you everything seriously — I know more about Monsieur the Count than you think.
Her face, her tone, were full of mysterious revelations.
— Rosalie, Rosalie — go on then.
— Well, it is everything I have already told you laughingly — only it is very serious.
— And who told you?
— Little Charles, always — only it is serious, and the letter proves it well.
[Written across: Little Charles is a stout man of fifty.]
— What, then?
— Why, that Monsieur the Count is attached to Mademoiselle, and that all this affair — Madam the Hussy and the duel — all of it came about because of you...
— Because little Charles told me that Monsieur the Count went to Florence for that very reason — and so it is clear he wanted to be rid of her, and all this affair is on your account.
And several other things about little Charles and Monsieur the Count which modesty alone prevents me from writing, but which are summed up in this final phrase of Rosalie's:
— And upon my word of honor Monsieur the Count is wrong, because you laugh at him, and neither Madame nor your aunt will ever accept him.
I do not dispel these illusions — they flatter me.
— And, the girl adds, I am now going to tell you what is bad...
— Bad?
— Yes, after what I have said that was pleasant.
— Well then?
— I don't know how, but they must have seen you through the keyhole enjoying yourself, and Monsieur the Count said you were flighty...
— Yes, I have already heard that.
Ah! He finds me... well then!
I let my ladies go to the theatre without me, where they are to meet the Russians, and I stay with Rosalie. What she has told me of so delightful a nature authorizes me to take a fresh painted sheet and imprint with my pen the following missive:
— "A discovery has just been made that compels these lines:
What is the point of writing — with one's left hand, no less — to a person one has found flighty to the degree of saying so to... you know who.
So much the worse for your pride if you had the poor taste to believe that one is always as one had the levity to be with and for you!
Violette — chagrined, unappreciated, and vexed."
I strongly approve of this letter. Before, I preferred to pass for anything rather than be suspected of favoring someone. Now it is different.
And then — I am truly vexed.
And this evening, below my window, two handsome Neapolitans are strolling with a mysterious air, unfolding their pocket handkerchiefs — a gesture of great significance here. The whole accompanied by a serenade, around which a "concentrated" crowd of curious onlookers soon gathers...
On the balcony — a woman, a lamp, a serenade, the stars...