Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 17 June 1877

I have no illusions: yesterday he was brought almost by force… besides, his arrival at Nice, this masquerade… all of it is so bizarre; it seems to me that I have been dreaming.
I was thinking, with a certain sharpness of wounded pride, that he would fail to appear today. But no — he came. I teased him about my mother's infatuation; I made him declarations aloud, in a calm tone, half-indifferent and slightly mocking — in as good taste as possible, and showing neither pique nor agitation; and indeed I was neither piqued nor agitated. I was at my ease, save for the anxiety caused by too few servants, and so on. Instead of elegant comfort, I should prefer magnificence.
He is teasing as a child: I had only to find the fish disagreeable for him to ask for it twice. I tried to drive the dogs away; he began to hold forth about his love of dogs; I agreed with him, and he confessed they were execrable creatures. And so on with the coffee, the cucumbers, every trifle. I very nearly called him Delight-of-my-eyes, among other endearments, and I also forbade Lise to look at him.
— It is very dangerous, my dear Lise, for children.
I took the greatest care to avoid being alone with the handsomest of all the Lardareis on earth — which had the effect of making him seem to seek it; in any case, no one constrained us: we spoke of April fools' tricks and other things to our hearts' content, openly, as if it were truly one of the most charming memories in the world.
[Crossed out: What is bold is that he seems to be telling us: it was you yesterday.]
Instead of denying Monaco, I make fun of it and tell him that:
— Who else would go to the trouble of disguising herself, dyeing her hair and eyebrows, just to catch a glimpse of you — if not I?
— No, no, forgive me, it is not that — only it may very well be that not wishing to show yourself in a gaming house you took this costume simply to accompany Madame your mother…
— Oh, not at all — it was for you; since I am mad about you, since I have adored you for two years…?
— Ah! I beg your pardon.
— But…
— I am a fool…
— Yes…
— I am a fool… wait! but not to the point of believing it.
— What a pity — but you are wrong.
What vexes and pleases me at once is that Larderei conducts himself with exquisite delicacy and taste. He assures me he never believed it was I: Clément told him so, and he — he never believed it — with an air that says: I recognized you, you know perfectly well, but since you do not wish it, let it be as you desire; I will not, even in jest between us, offend you with a suspicion or an allusion. Knowing your disguise would lead me too far.
Moreover he gives me to understand — me, of all people — that… as if… I had been cruel to him. What do you say to that? The impertinence of it!
And then — he plays the role of my uncle: he goes with Maman to the smoking room and tells her: "I recognized her; I am not an idiot — but it must not be known, and I have managed so well that Torlonia has been quite thrown off the scent."
We have chattered so much about all this that I have forgotten half of it. All these comedies, allusions, deceptions have truly muddled me; I no longer know exactly who knows and who does not, what ought and what ought not to be told, and to whom, and how.
[Written across the page: No matter — he must all the same be flattered, and he is. I certainly am, when a man — even an indifferent one — admires me.]
It seems so natural that he should be here that despite everything it makes me… almost afraid.
They were all at Monaco, and I was amused by Grand-papa's imprecations and contempt for Larderei — all on account of Larderei having smashed the Psyche statue and lifted… I believe… the blanket or the nightshirt of the poor sculptor's wife.
This shows you how much one ought to believe what people say.
Rosalie and Séraphin are at it again! They have been to Villefranche, and Rosalie swears on her mother's life that we were the topic of conversation almost the whole time, and here is how. The count is often bored; the count is entirely changed; the count received letters in Vienna telling him how fond of me they are in Florence, how much I pleased his dear mother. The count is madder than ever about me, and yesterday the count was so happy that he talked with Séraphin for a long while and told him that he [Crossed out: wants to marry me] wanted to marry…
In the end all of this strikes me as so ridiculous!
Either this servant is lying, or poor Alexandre has lost his mind.
Now I want to watch him play!… How to manage it! How to disguise myself? The damned Jew will find me out regardless.
See how appearances deceive! Alexandre is at Nice in summer while I am here, and Alexandre settles in Paris for the winter.
Since his arrival there have been no violent emotions, no shocks, no pang in my heart; I am only a little uneasy, and I eat almost nothing — that is all. Since yesterday I have taken coffee, tea, and cherries; the rest will not go down.
All this seems so strange… and so natural, that I no longer recognise myself in it; and if I were not afraid of the ridiculous I would say that — despite everything — the devil has bound Larderei and me together with a rope.
They have returned from Monaco.
It is not possible to lower, debase, and besmirch a man more thoroughly than they do with Larderei. I need to see him to reassure myself: the moment he is absent he presents himself as they paint him to me — hideous, crippled, thief, cheat, coward, poltroon, depraved, corrupt, rotten!…
Yet he conversed so well today — he was so simple and so altogether proper.
But these servants are absurd… why does Séraphin invent that it is I whom he means?
That the count may have become whatever he likes; that the count may wish to marry — that is possible: he is exhausted enough, depraved enough, worn out enough for it. That the countess should find me charming and write to say so — that is also possible. But that he himself should say he is in love with me more than ever!… Now that — that is a… tall tale.
You see — it was a Florence servant who wrote to Vienna, and the countess, and the devil knows what else!
And I recount only what Rosalie swears to officially; the rest is of a rare tenderness.
They say Torlonia was dead drunk this evening; Larderei drunk too — trembling, agitated, gambling wretchedly. That is what inspires pity. I should like to see him calmly lose or win a hundred thousand francs. But what can one do — it is his character.
We laugh at all of it, and I am quite muddled all the same by all these hypocrisies.