Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 6 June 1877

My aunt is woken by a considerable tumult. Pierre rushes in, trembling and even more idiotic than usual, crying: "The whole palace has been robbed!" If it isn't the devil, it's thieves! The silver is gone, the napkins are gone — the coats are gone from the anteroom!
While the horrors are being verified, the wretched imbecile clutches his stomach and cries that he has six children (four of whom are dead), and a wife, and that his stomach aches with fright. The dining room of the pavilion — which he has so pompously named the palace — is in the greatest disorder: furniture overturned, the table shoved to the other end of the room, cupboards flung open, paintings unhooked — paintings for which my brother paid five francs apiece. Triphon clamours for the gendarmes to be fetched, because Madame said that since he was mad it must have been he who had done some foolishness in the night.
"Yes — let us fetch the gendarmes!"
"What for?!"
"To seize —"
"Seize what?"
"The thief."
"But he's gone!"
"Buon Diou dé Diou!" And Pierre was white as a sheet — everyone in an uproar, and unable to help laughing at the stricken expression of this creature, who was a pitiable sight.
Naturally I laughed like a madwoman — because the previous night I had gone to the pavilion and done everything to prove that thieves would have no difficulty: I even tried to force a door to get at the jams, since I was dying of hunger — and no one heard a thing.
Four hours by the watch — four hours! — I spent on Alexandre and succeeded in nothing but the eyebrow — and even that uncertain! So I went out, and actually ran into Emile, whom I barely recognised — and I shall tell you why. I had seen him often enough not to be struck by any change in his person; but seeing him today, I felt as though I were seeing him again after three years' absence. He has filled out, has almost grown taller; he wore a buttoned frock coat and had the air of a man of breeding, convincingly so. Until today he had always been a young man — today he is a man. But in fact he must be about twenty-seven. Had I not taken him for a Merjeewsky, he would have remained a perfectly clean memory for me. I did not greet him, and he greeted me very slightly.
As I came home after dinner I saw Pierre carrying away the napkins and the silver with a peculiarly tender solicitude. He had intended to lock everything up before dinner, but had been persuaded that afterwards would be more sensible.
Mme Kondareff is beginning to take a liking to me. It is inevitable that all those who see me frequently should come to that.
Four hours spent before the Florentine's photograph have reinstated him in my mind — so that without exactly loving him, I could not point you to a more handsome and agreeable man.

Notes

Buon Diou dé Diou: a Nicois dialect oath, equivalent to "Good God Almighty!" ↩