Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 30 June 1877

From today we use our eight-spring carriage. Yet the hired horses and the absence of livery disturb me to the point that I feel quite ill at ease at the Bois — I am in mourning dress besides. I was to have gone to the circus with the Boyds, but I am not rested enough to be seen; as for any pleasure I might have taken… you cannot be serious?
The Comtesse de Bailleul came this evening to the Mertens'.
I was alone when the baronne, her sister, and Mme de Bailleul came to my room, and the comtesse compelled me to remove my peignoir. You should have seen these three old women. The significant looks they exchanged, the half-finished sentences. It does not flatter me — I have long known that there is nothing more beautiful in the world than my body, and that it is a true sin, an infamy, not to have myself sculpted or painted.
Such beauty cannot belong to any one person in particular — it is like a museum open to everyone.
There were so many familiar faces at the Bois — Lady Cooper, Mme de Bernis née Sabatier (from Nice), the fat Mayer, the Durands, the Buenos, the Morenos — but these last… they cannot harm me. It is Lady Cooper, Mme de Bernis, and the fat Mayer who could damage me without even meaning to.
Yesterday I dreamed of my beloved mother in mourning. Last night I dreamed of her again — she was singing. That means news is coming.
Marcuard does not write to me. I am tempted to write to him.
But what can it mean that we have not yet seen Paul de Cassagnac?
My telegram weighs on my conscience — it was of a rare stupidity.