Monday, 2 March 1874

I wait in vain for Allard -- one hour, one and a half, at last two hours and he is not here. In despair I go to weep in the yellow salon, and in the very middle of my abundant tears the guilty one arrives. He is very confused to see me weeping and now I pity him, but at the time I scolded him roundly. He does my hair exactly as I like, two curls behind (brown dress, black hat -- good); I dress quickly, quickly, and though my eyes are all red and swollen despite having washed my face, we leave. I am pleased with the hairstyle, which under this hat is admirable; this hat suits me so well.
But by the time we arrive at Valrose the air has refreshed me and somewhat restored my eyes. It is for the second time that I see this immense, superb, astonishing, magnificent villa, which transports you and involuntarily inspires in you a sense of its grandeur and its wealth and its bad taste. Ruins (false), cascades, grottoes, statues, fountains, plains, hills -- everything is there in profusion.
The architecture of the house is atrocious, and it is pitiful to see so much money spent to build such an obelisk.
Besides the house, there is a quantity of outbuildings, the courtyard entirely covered in dressed stone above terraces, and finally the new concert hall in white stucco and pale blue velvet. A box in the shape of a shell for M. and Mme von Derwies. I was thinking, watching them in the midst of all this splendour, seated like princes, that it is not twenty years since monsieur was a poor clerk and madame had two cotton dresses, wearing one while the other was being washed, and forced to go to market herself with a basket under her arm, without a hat.
It is astonishing and staggering.
The stewards include, among others, the baron and the prince (a real prince -- Tchetvertinski). It is written that the prince, wherever he serves as steward, must show us to our places. The baron stammered some nonsense. We are in the second row. Souvoroff and all her circle are near the entrance since she is a patroness; besides, she wanders about the entire hall. Near the wall are the Furstenbergs, who are not much fond of me, so I imagine.
The little one is a dirty brat, as my aunt says; yesterday on the way back, the courtesan with the funny hats called him Charles and took him away in her carriage.
There were no fine dresses. Everyone was like us, in hats; Princess Souvoroff all in black.
I do not envy Derwies; it is too grand and beautiful to be enviable.
Towards the end my face cleared and the traces of tears could no longer be seen. Only, where is Lambertye? One no longer sees him; if he has left, it is a pity.
The foreign youth were not there, but the Russian contingent was out in full force. Le Bec has also disappeared; there is only the mother, surrounded by all the young men.
There is an old horror.
I was with my aunt only; we go to the Promenade -- there is no one except Audiffret, who seems to me an excellent young man. I never noticed him before, but since his bets and la Gioia I notice him. I should like to know him; he pleases me very much.
[Written across: Note.]
[Crossed out: I love him] My aunt stays at the Baquis, and with Bete I go to the London House; I go down with Paul and was in the middle of eating salmon when the baron enters -- asks me if I am lunching.
-- No, Monsieur, I am dining.
-- What a funny way of dining.
He shall pay me for that remark. I should like one day to reprimand him and explain that certain phrases are not to be used. In the evening, undressed, I come downstairs and find Bete and my aunt; I begin my usual elegies, which this evening are satires on our visitors. The Duke de Bensa, the Marquise Samels and the Comte d'Abrial on the red armchair and the two green ones we shall buy at Sacco's. My aunt was silent the whole time; I did not stop. My only consolation is to say what I feel; it relieves me and I am not stifled by the weight of all this misery of my soul. When Bete went away, my aunt told me I was a wicked girl etc., for disgracing us before strangers.
Bah! It relieves me.