Tuesday, 5 February 1878

It has been four months since I began drawing. Four months!
Berthe is chattering and stupid, though sly and occasionally amusing. The Comte d’Abzac is in the drawing room; I have lowered the blind and closed the doors. I have no desire to see that red beard, that twitch about the eyes, and that big body, which is not badly built. They say he is witty — I do not find it so. Perhaps it is I who am stupid.
To go to the Opéra ball, or not to go?
My good fellow amuses me, but I am afraid of giving too much of myself. I hope he will come on Saturday to hear Mme de Fayet sing:
“Vivre seul ici bas sans amour, sans mystère” is a charming bachelor’s song, no doubt, in which the author tells how the bird follows his fleeing mate through the woods, the breeze gently stirs the leaves, the murmuring waves caress the shore, day seeks night and night seeks day — in short, everything is in pursuit except the author, who, weary of the whole affair, begs the good Lord to take back his life. Mme de Fayet has a way of murmuring the word amour, which recurs very often — a way of dwelling on that poor word amour, that if I were a man and found myself alone with her while she sang this song, I would pile all the furniture in front of me, and I doubt it would make a sufficient barricade.
Monsieur d’Abzac takes his leave. Farewell, dear Monsieur — do not come back too often.
This evening we go as planned with the Boyds to a ball given by an Irish lady — half mad, elderly, and covered in diamonds. I am dressed by Laferrière and consequently look well enough. Our entrance at around midnight (I drew until nine) creates something of a sensation.
I did not dance — it is too stupid. An Englishman with whom I had danced at Miss Fishburn’s has fallen in love with me.
It is true, I assure you — he did not leave my side, and one had only to look at him to guess “the state of his heart.” I watch them all pass by as in a dream and barely know the name of this poor man.
Madame Yorke, Dina, myself, and Messieurs d’Andigné, de Beaurepaire, and my Englishman withdraw to a sort of pantry, where we spend the better part of the evening laughing, because M. de Beaurepaire, who is considered one of the most amusing men in Paris, kept us amused. I was not too bored, because everyone who saw me looked at me. We bring the Boyds home to supper — they say disgusting things that make one laugh. I will never forgive Berthe for having removed her mask. It was ignoble.
This charming beauty stays at the atelier until four o’clock, then from four to seven walks out with her Englishman, who comes to collect her — and the concierge at number 36 never announces him, so one may in good faith suppose it is her sister who comes to fetch her. I am in on the secret, since the English nymph is supposed to be at my house until seven. This may end badly for her if she is not careful, for the hero is one of those depraved, cold, unscrupulous Franco-English types who nonetheless hold very virtuous opinions. I have seen him once and never spoken to him — so I may be wrong.
Quite a few partners — among others Baron d’Alt.

Notes

The opening line of the romance, which Marie quotes in French: “To live alone here below without love, without mystery.” ↩
Laferrière: a fashionable Paris couturier of the period. ↩