Tuesday, 4 November 1873

We go to the station again -- myself, Dina, and Hitchcock. I asked the stationmaster's permission and we passed into the buffet. There were already a few people; M. and Mme Addy and M. Willy were walking on the platform, which we did too (blue dress, black hat, good), waiting for the train. Little by little more people arrived. At last, there is the train, but we search in vain -- nothing. A great many people arrive, but dusty. Our neighbours from Acqua Viva, M. and Mme Clockman, and the mother with two almost pretty daughters, American. And to crown it all, the famous Duc Gros -- the beast had a commissioner's cap on his head. How wretched Nice is! Nothing but Saetones, Gros, and so on. Truly I feel humiliated to live here, and I am ashamed of myself. Not a single living, respectable soul. It is all dust, pebbles, mud, and orange peel.
My God, hear my prayer -- let us leave Nice in the spring. Everything that made Nice for me is no more. Oh! If he came to Nice, I would stay here with joy!
A quantity of people go to Monaco, but they are still nothing but lemon peels. We go to retrieve my umbrella; I left it at the London House. From there I walk with Hitchcock to the post office and the money-changer; passing Sacco's, I go in for a bunch of violets -- Saetone is there too, buying a rose. That pebble dares look at me.

^["Walk" in English in the original.]
I am beginning to get used to Hitchcock; she is pleasant, and I hope all will go well.
We pass along the promenade. Addy-Brady, as Bete calls M. Addy and M. Willy, have not gone to Monaco; I see that charming couple walking in the enchanted neighbourhood of the London House -- they were pacing up and down, and with each turn their eyes grew ever smaller and dreamier.

^[In English in the original.]
I hear a voice behind me:
"Good morning, Moussia."
It is Nathalie Patton; she wants to see my dress -- very well. I took her arm and we walked together to their house; in a few minutes we took the carriage. I drove past the Villa Howard to see if by chance they might have arrived last night, but no. A few more errands in town and we are off. Walitsky meets me at the post office, the Howard telegram in hand. They are telegraphing from Turin, as Lise had written to me in her last letter. They arrive tomorrow at eight forty-five in the evening. Mme Markevitch is a little woman with very bad manners, and on account of some quarrel with Walitsky, I know not what, she becomes rude to everyone and truly has the air of lodging with us [Crossed out: as in a hotel] as a favour. She arrives at lunch:

^["We are off" in English in the original.]
"What is there? Come, quickly" -- she eats and leaves. At dinner she reads. Truly it is extraordinary. As if she does us an honour by staying with us.
Indeed, M. Anitchkoff most wittily described the honour she does us -- how unhappy she is at our house, how badly we treat her after all the kind letters she wrote us, etc., etc. -- and he concludes by saying that in truth one need not stand on ceremony in an inn. Oh, my God, take us away from Nice!
They are regilding and rearranging at Gioia's; I think she will come.
We were passing her villa when suddenly Bete asks how one ought to say it -- premiers amours or premieres amours -- for your Maman said this morning: "One always returns to one's first loves," instead of the masculine form.
She said this while looking at Gioia's villa; I divine -- they have been speaking of the Duke of Hamilton, of his marriage, and of Gioia.
Maman was saying he will come back to Gioia. A word, a glance, a gesture are enough for me.
How wretched I am. Why will he not love me? Have I sinned so much?