Monday, 26 March 1877

I receive a letter from Berthe.

The charming Fabbricatores spend an hour with us — Madame beside Maman’s bed and the young women with Dina and me watching the passers-by. We laughed a little at Olga, then occupied ourselves with the gentlemen of yesterday and especially the two whose cards had just been left: “Marquis of Campomarino”¹ and “Count Francesco Caracciolo, of the Princes of Torchiaroli.”²

And above all we spoke of la Gisella, as she is called here. This girl without fortune, without birth, with an imbecile for a mother, has managed to get herself eagerly received in the best houses. All the ladies of the aristocracy have taken up her cause. It is said that her Franz had told her the church and the hour at which his mother the Comtesse de Balzorano would go to confession and take communion, and that Giselle went to confess and take communion at the same time — after which she approached the countess and humbly kissed her hand. The countess was naturally moved and asked with tears, I believe: who are you, Mademoiselle?

— I am she who loves your son so dearly, Madame, and whom your son loves.

Well, upon my honour I envy such a woman, for I could never do what she has done.

The countess, softened and won over, gave her consent; the count had the young woman presented to him and said he could well understand that his son had lost his head over her — but having made some inquiries, he grew angry again, and there the matter stands. It is the living legend of Naples; no one approaches a stranger without telling it to him, straight after the phrases: how long have you been in Naples? How do you like it? — they at once proceed to retail the romance of Giselle and François de Balzorano, wholesale and retail. No matter — one needs very firm resolution to play such a game. Is it possible to feel so strongly about someone? Or to know which one perhaps is certain that one wants that person, only that person, and will never want any other. Does that exist?

What resolution it takes to burn one’s ships like that! I could never do it — as much from timidity as from pride. That one has her life entirely mapped out: either love with Balzorano or death. She already poisoned herself for less — for a mother’s refusal; all the more surely will she kill herself, after all she has done, if the defection comes from him. It makes one shudder and fills one with enthusiasm like a splendid race. And all of this is public, tangible!

And Larderel... not enough... to inspire so much... in short, Balzorano is the son of the Princess d’Augri, related to the finest families, beloved by all. Recently he attracted the King’s notice at Carnival by throwing thousands of bonbonnières at him. The King had him presented and was most gracious. That is all the other wanted, for being of the Bourbon camp he could not be presented by his own circle. The next day the King was buried in flowers and a thousand gallantries, as though he were a woman. And, they say in town, that is why Giselle has no new dresses. Balzorano — the worst reprobate in Naples — has behaved like an angel since this love.

While my Bijou — legally interdicted,³ expelled from the clubs, under a dancer’s petticoats, and allied with the Mirafiores! Do you know what Larderel amounts to, for me? These three most dreadful vices. The legal interdiction, la Righi, and the scandals. He has rid himself of them now — perhaps he will settle down well. Balzorano’s elder brother, like Bijou’s, was not much; like Balzorano too, Bijou is the second son. Gaston de Larderel is married to a Salviati of Rome — that at least is well. It is this Mirafiore connection that sets him at odds with the Marguerite whom I hate.

I do not know why I like to make all these comparisons.

Bijou wrote to me ten days after his duel — so it was hardly a desire to boast any longer; and thirty days after his departure, which shows it was not the expression of a recent jest. Had he written the day after arriving in Florence I would be less pleased. But then he had no pretext.

Tomorrow I shall be able to say: it is tomorrow. If he had fine teeth, one might perhaps love him. I write down deliberately everything that passes through my head, so that one may draw whatever conclusions one wishes.

Ah! I would like to love like Giselle... I am working myself up — it is not right. It must come naturally!

Melito had asked whether we stayed in some evenings. That evening he presented himself with goodness knows who else — no one was received. And Rosalie, who was at the concierge’s, comes to tell us that poor Melissano was pacing at the hotel entrance with an umbrella. He dates from last year — the oldest of them — and all the others have got ahead of him, unfortunate monkey.

— Please, introduce me to those ladies!⁴ he said, hands clasped, to the Duc de Carmignano. He is so comical, this poor ugly fat fox.

I would like to tell something more... is that all? No — enough, good night. But appears to me, often lamentable of Maman, because I am not yet in bed.

— Marie, how do you expect to be pretty?...

— It is not I who want it — it is you.