4 April.

I meet Mrs. Davis here pretty often, and call upon her at her house.  And nothing else!  There is some dislike, a little contempt under a thick layer of ashes, and for the rest, the usual social intercourse.  She is still too beautiful to be classified among my idiosyncrasies.  I cannot love her, and do not take the trouble to hate her.  She understood that at once, and adapted herself to circumstances.  All the same she cannot always conceal her irritation at my self-possession and cool independence; but for that very reason shows me greater consideration.  It is very strange, that easiness with which women from closest relations pass on to mere acquaintanceship.  Laura and I treat each other as if there had never been anything between us,—­not only before people, but even when we are alone together.  It does not seem to cost her the slightest effort; she is polite, cool, and self-possessed, affable in her way, and her manners influence me to such a degree that I should never dream of calling her by her Christian name.

The Neapolitan cousin, Maleschi, used to roll his eyes so ferociously at me that I almost considered it my duty to ask him not to injure his optics; he has now calmed down, seeing how very distant our relations to each other are, and is very friendly towards me.  He has already fought a duel about Laura, and in spite of the reputation of coward he had in Italy, showed a deal of pluck.  Poor Davis has passed to Nirvana some months ago, and I suppose after a decent interval of widowhood, Laura will marry Maleschi.  They will make a splendid couple.  The Italian has the torso and head of an Antinous; in addition to that, a complexion like pale gold, raven black hair, and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean.  It may be that Laura loves him, but for some reason known only to herself, she bullies him a great deal.  Several times in my presence she treated him so uncivilly that I was surprised, as I had thought her aesthetic nature incapable of such an exhibition of temper.  Aspasia and Xantippe in one.

I have often noticed that women, merely beautiful, without striking qualities of the soul, who are looked upon as stars, are something more than stars; they are a whole constellation, two in fact,—­a Great Bear to their surroundings, a Cross to their husbands.  Laura was a Cross to poor Davis, and is now a Bear in regard to Maleschi.  She would treat me a little in that way, too, if it were not that she is not familiar with the ways of Parisian society, and considers it safer to have me for an ally than an enemy.  It is very strange, but she does not create here the same sensation as in Italy, or on the Mediterranean.  She is simply too classical, too beautiful for Parisians, whose taste is to a certain degree morbid, as appears in their literature and art; and characteristic ugliness more strongly excites their blunted nerves than simple beauty.  It is a noted fact that the most celebrated stars of the