Wednesday, 21 March 1877

Rosalie wakes me with a letter. Read it. It gave me less pleasure than the first, because I wanted it yesterday.
The mandolin teacher gives me new details. The Marquis Niccolini was also slightly wounded, but he is the finest sabre-fighter in Florence.
Larderel has written to the racing committee — he is entering horses. Then Mme Hamontoff arrives, then Bikowsky.
And then I go to see the Fabbricatore young women, who have colds.
And then... I sit there an hour to write these few lines. For some days now it has taken me an eternity to write one or two wretched pages. I am lazy and nothing interests me any more.
It was on 3 March that Larderel fought. He sent his horses to Palermo and won all the prizes.
My aunt writes that we should beware of Larderel: “He is not a man, he is a scoundrel. How can you take him seriously?”
Tomorrow I shall send the reply to Florence: it is a square sheet almost entirely covered by a tawny-red rose, half shed of its petals, on which lies a visiting card with one corner turned down. All of it painted, naturally. It is on this card that these words are set:
— “I believe it is the sabre’s. Because the flower’s did not keep you from leaving, whereas the other is keeping you there still. But to judge properly, one needs time.
Violette does not forgive as easily as you seem to think, but she is generous when one repents.
Do you repent?”
I would have preferred simply this: I shall answer you in Naples — but he may stay two more days in Florence, during which I would receive no letters; I shall put mine overnight in an envelope full of fresh violets, so that it takes on their scent; but how sorry I am that I cannot send him flowers, as in all the notes that came before the one with flighty.

Notes

Lisez-là — a minor grammatical slip in the original (should be Lisez-la). ↩