Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 7 April 1878

Multedo came at three o'clock, and under pretext of waiting for Dina and Berthe, who were out walking, he stayed until half past six. I was amused by him, but I did not have those cutting remarks that are "prodigies of your fabulous and formidable wit for eighteen years."
Several times maman had to go to grandfather's; Multedo spoke to me of the ball.
"You return to your obsession, Monsieur — very well, provided it amuses me."
It appears that the domino, moved for an instant... stirred... taking pity perhaps... who knows — had a moment of weakness or compassion, and while the kneeling lover bent his head upon the lap of the said domino, the latter bent hers upon that of the gentleman, who will be proud all his life of having caused a moment of disturbance in this marble statue upon its pedestal of ice! I laugh and understand nothing. The fact is he must have believed in a small success when, tired and overwrought, I pressed the forehead of my mask against his hair.
At that moment, it seems, he believed that I had a heart, that I was a woman, and his self-love will never forget that moment of triumph.
"It is still your obsession, Monsieur, but it no longer amuses me."
A woman who meets a man in society and goes to find him at the Opera ball and spends three hours with him... yet that man must have seemed interesting to her... and then she plays him so abominable a trick, she becomes treacherous, malicious, base! Why not suppose, Monsieur, that this woman went there for someone she did not find, and that finding herself at a loss, alone, and catching sight of a familiar face she clung to it as to a plank of salvation?
In short, this magnificent Corsican believes that I am smitten with him. What a good joke! Provided it helps him to get thoroughly caught — and when he is, be assured, you good dogs, he will no longer be sure of anything.
Blanc, who notices everything, has no doubt noticed yesterday that that gentleman and I were in a state of coquetry. Blanc maintains that Multedo has no wit... in any case he has more than that old frigate; he has enough for one to be able to have some with him... poor
fellow — when I think that he was on his knees before an armchair that represented me (he was recounting the scene at the ball) when maman came back in. He was left thunderstruck...
"Stay, stay, Monsieur — it is nothing, since you are not on your knees before me..."
"Madame, it is a demonstration... Is it not so, maman — it is nothing for Monsieur to remain on his knees before this armchair?"
He told me in all seriousness that I was the most witty woman he had ever met, and that he had never seen one who pleased him more.
"You are very beautiful and very pretty, but you are too old — you have no heart."
And again and always and thirty-six things more that would have made me wild with pride two years ago.
He cannot swallow his appointment at the Madeleine. It is curious — I know he is a matter of indifference to me, but at times he has intonations in his voice that produce rather strange emotions. Thus his most particular kisses on my gloves at the Opera ball made me shiver as at the touch of an electric machine, and yesterday evening crossing a drawing room, the sleeve of my dress brushed his hand, which he was resting against a sideboard as he watched me — well, I shivered from head to foot... One must suppose this man is charged with electricity, that is all.
"It is I — it is Multedo!"
My little aunt, Dina, I, and even Rosalie have made it a kind of catchphrase that makes us laugh as we recall the Madeleine — that soft voice, that cat-like gait, that air of consequence. Fie! How revolting a man can be.