Thursday, 29 March 1877

Rosalie woke me with the card that Larderei left with the concierge this morning for Mme Bashkirtseff. He has lodged in a garret — but at the Hôtel du Louvre. I believe I kissed that card, still half asleep — enchanted, mad! I am very shaken and tired. Today it is the custom to stroll on the Via Roma (Toledo), where carriages are not admitted on Holy Thursday and Good Friday. Imagine three women alone — one of them in white — thrown into the midst of this populace; we spent an hour in some church or other, and after five minutes of walking I took refuge again in a shop, which was immediately besieged like an overturned carriage. Alarmed, I drag my party toward a side street where a carrozello is found — the most abominable little vehicle in the world — we raise the hood and all three climb in! Along the way we exchange this incredible conveyance for a landau, and I arrive at the hotel, at last!
When Larderei entered the reading room where we were waiting for the table d'hôte, I was so seized by the surprise — and the beauty of the man — that I was left stupid for the rest of the evening. He greeted Maman, who held out her hand. He bowed before me; I blushed behind my Figaro and, not knowing what I was doing, went on reading for another minute.
— How is it, Monsieur, said I at last — not knowing whether I truly knew him or whether Cancello had been a fantasy — how is it, Monsieur, that you have your arm in a sling?... you have... hurt your arm... — I was trembling.
— Yes, Mademoiselle — my arm hurts, but it is nothing now, it has passed.
— Ah! it is nothing now...
— It was no doubt while skatinant? [sic] asked Dina — to whom Maman had already had the time to introduce... Bijou.
— Yes — no, it was against a door.
He placed himself opposite me at table — opposite me, who did not know what expression to assume, and could assume none. I was embarrassed, I wanted to laugh, and I was hampered by Maman's goodness — who, out of love for me, is incapable of concealing the fondness she feels by extension for my favorite. She carved his roast for him, and I said this singular thing:
— Maman is very skilled — she is accustomed to carving meat for her dog.
I ate nothing but an orange, which I left half-finished to take refuge in the reading room, where I began to play something on the piano — hoping he would go away, not the piano but Larderei; he came to where I was and introduced his friend M. le Commandeur Marcuard, pronounced Marcouard — Swiss appearance, red beard, blue eyes, plump face and... Swiss, whom we shall not see again even once. He came to say something to me — I can no longer remember what — when I recalled the piece of yellow envelope! It is such a strange situation: we are supposed barely to know each other, and yet at every moment a word, a glance made us feel and remember that whole strange business of the ball... of the letters...
This mysterious understanding makes me bow like a reed under a nightingale's weight... I lower my eyes, and when I meet his, mine express perhaps more than I think within myself.
This is nothing new — the handsome man from Nice once made the same impression on me, but without the letters, without la Righi, without the duel, without what Rosalie has told of his... feelings toward me.
The speed and ease with which he delivers his witticisms, his impieties, his nonsense — it is a wholly new impression for me; I feel slow, and cannot think of anything to say. He has the air of someone one has known for months — I feel an aversion to such ease of manner. Larderei positively dazzles me.
For a moment I found myself with him, apart from the others, before a caricature of the Mayor of Naples; he looked into my eyes, and in a tone of voice that recalled and accepted the letters as a reality, he said to me:
— You were truly ill? How sorry I am — no, but you know, truly sorry!
I replied with my two eyes, which say too much and which I cannot control.
I no longer recognise him — he is more handsome, taller; ten times I suffered from his acknowledgments. I want everything to be forgotten, or at least to seem never to have been — but he, on the contrary, recalls it to me at every moment: sometimes by drawing very close for a second and saying a word softly in that voice... of the letters and the ball — the voice I wish to call our voice; sometimes by speaking to me with his eyes.
After the reading room we went down to our rooms — which I find the most excusable thing yet. It is very natural when dining at the same table.
I am stupid and speak with a solemnity that vexes me — with which I wish to impress Larderei, who sits astride chairs and comports himself as the most celebrated, the most spoiled, the most adored of men might... do.
I — who care nothing about anything — have found in myself a genuine concern for his wound. I have never asked after anyone's health, as much from carelessness as from false shame. Well! I ventured to ask him whether he still suffered, and he replied to me privately that it was no longer serious, but that the wound had been seven centimetres wide. He spent six days in bed.
In the midst of this evening so calm and so agitated, Caracciolo appeared. I did not become a little myself again until half an hour after Larderei and Marcuard had gone. On leaving he took my hand, and pressed it with his injured right hand, and I noted with dismay that I trembled, as I had in the time of Nice.
What is sad in all this is that there he is — quite simply my master... of the moment. Call it what you will — I do not want to yield to my mania for definitions that I do not know how to make.
What is sad is that I am — extravagant and enthusiastic creature that I am — in love and nearly mad about this man. I did not expect it; I ought to have expected it, after the madness of last year — real madness, the like of which I never thought I should experience even in imagination.
Barnola replies to my letter — I read it. And now I am wretched and more unhappy than ever. [Written across: — Larderei, having received one from his sister, comes to read it at ours.] I looked at him, I looked at myself, and began to build up a fantasy that was ignobly shattered by atrocious memories, sown with ignoble words: family, inquiries, Antonelli, Nice, enemies, hideous slanders!
I prefer to foresee things in advance, I prefer to weep so much in advance. I exaggerate, I poeticize, and I fall back face-first against the wretched ruins that fate makes for me.
Horrible forebodings, chronic fears — which finally make me ridiculous by lending me a singular tendency toward one knows not whom, one knows not what; stupid aspirations, always repulsed and made heavy, ridiculous — like the love of the old maid for an imaginary being, or indiscriminately for every creature that wears a moustache.
Before, it would have been a firework display — now it is a deep sadness, a blasé weariness that shames me.
Maman, who was charming with Caracciolo, tortured me with Larderei and provoked impatience in him — in him who does not know how to repress anything (not in the manner of Antonelli, whom I hate and despise, and whom I had tried to elevate and create by inventing in him the flaws that I love).
Maman treats him like her child. That is enough to drive me to despair, because I catch every slightest impression of this man — whom I do not want to call my new torment, because I do not want to compare, and all those I have known cannot reasonably be compared to him; they were nothing but provincial lions or vulgar reprobates, whereas Larderei is a great nobleman — capricious, spoiled, wild, free — such as I wanted him and such as I did not think I should find him. My conversations with Rosalie about little Charles and Monsieur le comte had made him commonplace — and it is with satisfaction that I find him again as I had imagined him. Let us use the word ideal and say no more. Who knows what tomorrow will bring — it is of today that I speak... for the ideal, perhaps a few other things would be needed... let us not plunge too deep into the clouds, and let us end with a word that is wounding and cruel but no doubt true:
— Such as he is, you shall not have him, my girl!
Such predictions bring bad luck.

Notes

Holy Thursday and Good Friday: during Holy Week, the Via Toledo (Via Roma) was closed to carriage traffic — pedestrians filled the street for the traditional promenade.
Carrozello: Italian — a small hired carriage, the cheapest form of public transport.
Skatinant: Dina's improvised French verb form derived from the English "skating" — Marie marks it sic as an amusing neologism.