Sunday, 7 October 1877

[One line struck through]
At church we saw this Monsieur Verefkine who says I drink too much wine with the artists of Rome. This encounter makes me, throughout the day, recall all the unpleasant episodes of my past, a heap of little things that make me start — but it is cold, and one thinks I am simply shivering.
We had Altamura and afterward went to the Bois.
An excessively long, plain dress, and over it a close-fitting cloth jacket with a skunk-fur trim arranged as a shawl nearly to the ground, and a hat that would give even a hussy the air of a duchess. Moreover I was very pale, although without a particle of rice powder.
Not a familiar face except the Durands. You know the Durand brother — the little boy who a few years ago used to drive perched in red stockings on the box of their carriage. Well, this little one has become a young man and a handsome one; but what is astonishing is that he already has a distinguished air and something about him, despite being seventeen or eighteen. A matt pallor, ash-grey hair, and eyes of black velvet. And I believe — God forgive me — that he vaguely recalls Alexandre.
I cannot read and I am so bored alone since I no longer think about... Violet. Every moment I want to go and join everyone — but they are so tedious. Quarrels over a glass of water, over a fork, dramas over the choice of a first course! Grand-papa plays the unfortunate man, or else the matamore, or starts a quarrel, a dispute about the soup there was last week, or falls into indignation over some unpleasant event from the year before. Or when he is in good spirits he talks about... the water closet, about what is in it, or about... I do not know how to put it, about... the manner of... perpetuating the population of the globe.
We lunched at the Grand Hôtel but there was not a familiar face except Altamura and Vasconcellos the Portuguese. The latter returned in the course of the day. Antonelli — very plain. An excellent fellow who kisses ladies' hands — that is, their fingertips — and makes no noise.

Notes

Matamore: a braggart or swaggering coward, from the stock character of Italian commedia dell'arte.