Thursday, 3 May 1877

We lunched at Marcuard lives in the palazzo of the Baroness de Devil, in the margin Baroness d’Hoogheworst, knows how, who let him have this apartment as a favour. He has only one drawing room, which is a little museum. At first sight it is impossible to take in all the antiques, curios and objets d’art heaped up pell-mell. The walls are hung with every tapestry imaginable, Gobelins, Oriental, and even pieces of lace. Vases, old weapons, pictures, several of which have no merit but their age. I always feel so comfortable with this man that I spent three charming hours.
I rummaged everywhere, particularly among the visiting cards and the invitations from all these ladies of Florence, and above all the portraits! The portraits of Larderel. Two in costume and one plain. I am sorry I cannot convey, in describing him, the stamp of supreme distinction this man bears. His face is such a mixture of openness and subtlety that one would readily take it for something more than subtlety. By my crude definition, Mirafiore and he both look like cheats. And yet what a handsome face, yes, very handsome, and above all noble and elegant. I had a great longing to steal all his portraits; it would be such a pleasure to have them now, while it still gives me pleasure. I always had to fight down the small unpleasant feelings that Antonelli’s portrait stirred in me before I could work myself up, and even then! It almost never went well; there was nothing but the idea that he loved me, and then... the rest.
But I like Larderel, like him thoroughly, like him as I used to like the Duke of Hamilton. I may not love him thoroughly, but I like him thoroughly.
We chatted quietly of a thousand quiet things; Dina played the Madonna in an antique armchair, Marcuard did nothing but enjoy his charming interior, Maman did nothing, and I did the same, all the while bustling about a great deal.
I learned (I knew it last year already) that the greatest of all the Alexandres was no longer a member of the Club, after a heap of affairs that Marcuard concealed like a true friend, Swiss though he is. Next I learned that la Silène had an eighteen-year-old sister, a dancer in Milan, called la Michetta, and finally I learned that Silène had never been a dancer at all but... a mime!! A mime, with those ridiculous gestures... O my... Alexandre.
It was said yesterday at the Baroness de Talleyrand’s that Larderel had fallen madly in love with a young Russian lady in Naples and was getting married. They asked Marcuard whether it was true, and Marcuard told it to me as a kind of absurdity, though with a tinge of malice, in the sense that he considers Larderel absolutely incapable of love or of anything serious.
You can well imagine that the Countess de Larderel was the first to hear these rumours.
— When I told you that the Count is mad about you, you would not believe me, cries Rosalie, when I told you he had quarrelled with his mother because he wanted to go away, ill as he was, and everybody said he was going to Naples to see pretty young Russian ladies! And you laughed at me and made fun of it all!
Let them talk, what do I care! So much the better, it amuses me.
Marcuard flirts with me rather than with Dina.
I went to try the skating here, then to the shops, then I went up to dress for the Cascine, the Cachines (French-style). I have received a new corset; the old one was ridiculously loose: the more my figure develops, the slimmer I grow. My waist is fabulous today, I am pretty, I dress while calling out to Rosalie that my family is waiting for me, that I want to show myself to my family! etc.! etc.!
I am wild with joy in Florence; I run through the rooms and along the corridors as I did ten years ago, and it amuses me so!
Yes, my family, my emperor, yes, my family; I go out looking so well for her sake that, as yesterday, I get down from the carriage to meet her, to show off my lovely waist, supple and slender... Women and men pay it particular attention, and so does my family; my tender family is wearing a green dress in two shades.
I did not look at my family, but my family saw me; my family looks like my husband. Farther on, my other family, the Mirafiores (and not Mirafiori), and then my third family, that is to say the wife, the ex-wife of my husband, with her sister and with my daughter, that is to say with Larderel’s daughter!!!! That wretched woman used to hide the child in her skirts, and so she was punished for it, though not enough, since this... child, my daughter in short, receives six thousand a year from her father. Now that, I should hope, is an income... for Niccolini too.
O my charming families. Since I call them that in front of my own people and laugh about it out loud, I am at least sure of no longer suffering those small and great domestic humiliations of the past: what are they thinking?
I fear nothing, since I laugh at everything, and at myself above all.
It is an excellent way of avoiding false and strained situations.
And now I have just been playing the mandolin and singing. O joy, my voice seems to be coming back!
I have done so much, run about so much!
Ah! so at last I have been in love. What a satisfaction. When I think that I believed myself in love with Antonelli... fie, how horrid!
Ah! if I had not taken it into my head to become a pope’s niece, Antonelli would be nothing to me but a conquest and a flattering memory.
Dear Larderel, he is the brightest and cleanest part of my life so far. Naples and Larderel.
What a charming family! Ah! my dear family, I am tired. Lunch, the Skating rink, running about on foot to pose before... my family; I am determined to look beautiful to her, to my family. Everything pretty I put on is all for her; I am more coquettish than if it had been for a man.
Oh! in Naples I was in a daze, and yet it was my happiest time.

Notes

In French in the original: mon empereur — the exclamation Marie picked up from Larderel (“as Larderel says when tipsy”, 8 April 1877). ↩