Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 17 October 1877

One must pay at the studio — one pays the month in advance, and it is already two weeks that I have been going.
There are not a hundred and sixty francs to pay for it.
Comte Carie des Perrières — a ruined gentleman, resident of Nice, duelist, traveller, writer, gambler, etc. — of whose acquaintance we made recently in Nice, is in Paris and comes to call. He came today and I made his acquaintance. He speaks well and has the appearance of an honest and brave fellow. He has served in several campaigns as a volunteer, and one can see at once what kind of man he is. This man will never speak ill of anyone — that is to say, never slander. Carie des Perrières belongs to the set of Aspremont, Audiffret, and others. He may be thirty; of medium height, thin, with a nose too long and too curved, a sallow complexion, and hair that is either black or blond.
The devil — how at length I describe him.
But here is a letter from that excellent stuffed Swiss. A registered letter with five seals. [Letter pinned into the manuscript, but missing]
I am so vexed! Those wretched hundred and sixty francs!
It is ten o'clock. I am in extremis — that is to say, one foot already in bed — and someone comes to tell me that the little Portuguese is in the drawing room, in a white cravat.
Really, there are people who have no luck. Dina is asleep, I am nearly so.
To think that in Naples I used to finish dressing at about half past nine or ten, and that some would arrive at eleven.
I went to Fauvel — my throat is healed, the vocal cords are clear! There is only a dreadful nasal catarrh which will clear up in a fortnight, the catarrh.
How fine that will be!
I will tell you also that I worked badly this morning because — the devil knows how — I had remembered... Antonelli.
It was me! Me that one dared... Wretch! Wretch. Wretch.
And that man still lives! And I can do nothing to him! Oh! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
It appears foolish, does it not? Yet it is true — I hate him and I say to myself with disgust that he lives... As if nothing had happened... And I was outraged... there in Rome, on the staircase of the Hôtel de la Ville!! No, it is truly dreadful, hideous.
[Written across the page: For fear that a reader who has not read everything might imagine the worst upon reading the end of this page, I wish to explain the matter of the staircase of the Hôtel de la Ville. Antonelli had taken me in his arms in a manner too suggestive, an ignoble manner — I freed myself with horror. And that is all!]