Sunday, 30 September 1877

How happy Giselle and Balsorano must be.
I have changed back into white. A dress of very thick ribbed cloth, of a very deep white, perfectly plain — and the marvellous thing is that Worth has made me a bodice that fits absolutely close, with absolutely no darts and no seams at the shoulders. It buttons down the front and is drawn in just at the middle by a ribbon at the chest, forming three pleats on each side. And it is so simple and so natural that I wonder how I could ever have worn anything else. All my dresses will be made thus, and I name this bodice Violette.
We run into that excellent Torlonia on the steps. He says that Melissano’s American woman is a chimera. He asks permission to call on us and I tell him we have taken an apartment at 71 Champs-Élysées, first floor. Which is true.
We go to the races, where we see the black beard and his friend again. They do not leave my side. In the lift and everywhere. From morning until evening.
I am in white and do not dine at the table d’hôte.
Soria bids me farewell — darkly enough, upon my word; he looks sad. One would think a woman had deceived him; perhaps he simply has a headache.
There were a great many ladies in white, respectable women and young girls, so I did not stand out; but people looked at me, and for the first time since I have been in Paris. The fact is that I am growing pretty again; it began two days ago.
I take life patiently; only I go home early and leave the others with Altamura and Count Gaetani d’Aragona etc. etc. etc. He is a Neapolitan whom we knew six years ago at Baden.
I was also introduced to a little attaché of the Portuguese legation in Vienna. An interminable name, like Gaetani’s.
Mme Batourine writes to thank me for having had various things sent to her that she had asked me to buy.
Lautrec is still writing. The Anitchkoffs. In short, all that is going well.
I have a heap of ideas about Naples but I shall not speak of them; it is useless. We shall see what happens when the moment comes — at the moment it happens. Every day I have new ideas, plans, schemes. That is the proof that nothing good has been found yet.
For the moment, what is certain is that we have taken an apartment in Paris.

Notes

Charles Frederick Worth (1825–1895), the celebrated Paris couturier, founder of haute couture. ↩