Tuesday, 10 April 1877

In spite of all my efforts, I fell asleep at eight in the morning.
— Well, how are you, Mademoiselle? Rosalie asked me, leaning on the bed as she used to.
— Better, well, thank you, I said, after a hesitation during which I held back a “How is Bijou?” that would have torn my lips.
I dress in silence; the silence weighs on me horribly. Maman is in tears in the drawing room; Rosalie watches me furtively and speaks in a low voice, as though there had been a death in the house.
Eh, I am not even ill! Divine justice!
I am dressed, and fresh!
— Rosalie, I said, in a voice that has been lifeless since yesterday, has there been any talk of Monsieur le comte downstairs?
— No, good heavens, no, what would you have them say…
written across the page
Everyone is asking after my father’s health. We have received a reassuring letter. The lie was a good one.
— So nobody knows anything. Nobody must know. Poor Bijou…
— I do not know whether it is because there was so much talk about it…
— Ah, yes.
— But it really did affect me.
— And what about me! Ah! it is a sad ending, Rosalie… I am sorry now.
— It gave me the strangest feeling, there was so much talk about it…
— That is not why; it is because Monsieur le comte is kind, everyone likes him.
— He looked very happy when I went to call him back.
— When?!
— Yesterday, when you sent me…
— Where did you find him, what did he say? I forgot to ask you all that. Tell me!!
— Oh, good heavens, Mademoiselle, do not make me laugh — you are laughing! I wanted to tell you seriously…
— I am not laughing… I am listening.
— Well, he looked pleased, he said, yes, yes, I am coming this minute; and going up the stairs he said to me: Rosalie, you are an angel!
— I asked him why, and he answered: because you have come to fetch me.
A joke like any other, no doubt, but very much to the point.
The doctor came for my throat; it is my throat he is treating, having recognised that the other illnesses did not exist.
He is in Rome. If you knew all that I long to suppose, to invent, to imagine. If you knew how I follow him step by step, from the Hôtel de Rome (that is where he always stays) to the Corso, to Spillmann’s, to Mortes’s, to the Opera, to the Pincio, to the racecourse. I close my eyes and I follow him…
Rosalie has just handed me his card, with those three letters written like Violette’s letters: P.P.C.
Is it mockery or compassion?
Why write to me… if he had not written to me… Rosalie was going to Florence, and perhaps I was going there myself.
This card… yesterday, as I opened the last book but one, my hand came upon his handkerchief, which I had tucked between the pages. I assure you it felt like a hot iron; I snatched my hand away and very nearly fainted, breathing in the scents he always uses.
This handkerchief is attached to the first page of this notebook. [Missing from the manuscript]
There is no lack of mementoes. Never in my life shall I wear violets.
Mme Hamontoff, her daughter and her husband came, and then Marcuard. Marcuard acts on me like a sedative. As long as he is there, dashing off caricatures, smiling and saying calm, sensible things, I can still bear it, but alone!!!
I have not yet taken it in, I do not believe it yet… it can only be a dream. Besides, I do not yet quite understand what I have done, what I have been told. The curious thing is that I am perfectly well, dressed and up and about, and above all that I am entirely changed in spirit: I am serious, calm, I talk about everything, I laugh. All this makes Maman cry. She thinks that I have …, that I am in a fury as I used to be. In reality I am only mortally grieved. I wanted to smash everything, and instead I went and knelt in a dark room and trembled for an hour without shedding a tear.
For a moment I forget myself, and then I want to rush like a madwoman to the ends of the earth!! Where to go, what to do, what is to become of me!
I am angry with myself for having uttered words of despair over the others, but I do hope you feel the difference. I wanted to make Audiffret a second Merjeewsky, I wanted to be a Pope’s niece. But here, I loved (Book 59, 295–297)
I would like to describe how I feel, and I cannot. Dejection, sudden fits of rage, swallowed tears, surges of jealousy.
I cannot look at his visiting cards!…
Yesterday he brought the photographs from Sorrento, and today he is dead. It is hearing him spoken of that unnerves and enrages me.
— La Piccolelis will make him run up another half-million in debts, Maman said. If she knew how she has made me suffer, she would sooner have bitten off her tongue. I reread what I have written and I do not understand it, I have lapses… I cannot get over it. But I have a plan that I have given my word to carry out. It would be strange…
I have just calmed myself with the mandolin, which tonight gives out very harmonious sounds.
But is it possible?!
And it is happening to me?!
Oh! certainly. Never to anyone else.
For the first time in my life I do not repent of what I have written, after thirty hours.
In such circumstances thirty hours are enough to turn one’s ideas round and make one regret every violent thing one has said.
I am still stunned. Ah! if only he would break his neck at the Rome races.
Marcuard and Doenhoff spent the evening talking about porcelain. It very nearly put me to sleep…
Which way to turn, what to do?
I shall go to Florence all the same. The position is clear; I have nothing to hide from my family, so I shall not have to be troubled by what they may think.
The young men of Naples are not charming, neither those I know nor those I do not. And then it is so bare here.
I have sent for dresses and I shall go to the Florence races. The only cities in the world I love are Rome and Florence — and Paris, naturally, but Paris is something else altogether.
I am sick of everything. Everything I touch turns from gold to lead. But one cannot die of it, after all — and what good would it do? First, to raise a pedestal to M. de Larderel; then, no good at all, since I should not even be able to enjoy the effect I had produced. But I give up, I am disheartened… to dress, to go and produce that wretched effect, only to reap nothing but filth afterwards!…
If I had not shown that I love him, perhaps he would have loved me. But I hid nothing. Why should I? I was not ashamed of it. On the contrary, I took pride, and still do, in showing that I love. I find it interesting, and then… I do not like hiding anything, I want to live in the sight of the people. It amuses me.
It is very fortunate that I never had any serious illusions; I always said and thought that I was courting Larderel but might very well fail. Well, there you are…
Well now… he seems less handsome to me at this moment… I rather fear the clouds of love will scatter and lay bare a thoroughly ugly carcass that will go by the name of affront, humiliation or something of the sort. For after all, here is a man who has flatly refused my love, judging it not worth a marriage. Oh! I know very well that but for that he would throw himself at my feet and stay there, for he has only to begin — he cannot live alone, and he is a creature of habit, as I know and as he says himself.
That does not console me: I should not be satisfied with such a love; it is good enough for the likes of Righi and Picolellis. And besides, a day will inevitably come when he is wholly in love, or else… more probably he will wear himself out on nothing at all and marry for money and connections, like his brother.
How can anyone expect women to be virtuous!!!
Pen drawing: at left a young woman in profile, hair in a high chignon, in a buttoned bustle dress, holds out her hand to a small moustached man in a top hat holding a cane; at right, on a hatched ground, a three-line handwritten inscription beginning perhaps “La Majesté”, and the number “104” at the top
Drawing by Marie: a young woman in a bustle dress greets a gentleman in a top hat; handwritten inscription at right Mon Journal, vol. 10, p. 108 (facsimile)
Pen sketch, partly faded: at left a round head ringed with small triangles, in the centre a figure draped in a scarf, at right an ornate lantern bearing illegible signs
Drawing by Marie: sketch of objects — a round head, an ornate lantern, a draped figure Mon Journal, vol. 10, p. 108 (facsimile)
Pen drawing: a young woman seen from behind, hair up, leaning on a railing; behind her a row of gentlemen in top hats, a rider, two-wheeled gigs and a fence; top right a small man in a top hat runs under the words “Toujours trop tard !”; bottom left “fait pour Marcuard.”
Drawing “fait pour Marcuard” (made for Marcuard), authorship uncertain: Marie at the grandstand rail, gentlemen in top hats and gigs; top right, “Toujours trop tard !” Mon Journal, vol. 10, p. 109 (facsimile)
The most tiresome thing is not being able to complain! For after all, I cannot very well complain that a man does not love me; that would be too stupid.
You see, all this depends on circumstances. Setting aside as non-existent any offence, affront or humiliation, let us simply examine whether or not I suffer from being parted from Larderel — not as a brilliant match, but as a man. Well, it depends. Let Larderel fight again, run up more debts, or simply launch himself into society and become the fashion, and I am sure I shall be mad about him.
It is astonishing how all my ideas have been turned upside down in the last hour! Could I have been mistaken again… and then the tears I shed in front of Maman, all that real grief I was not ashamed of…

Notes

P.P.C.: pour prendre congé (to take one’s leave) — written on a calling card left to announce one’s departure. ↩
In Latin in the original: coram populo — openly, in public view. ↩