Tuesday, 27 October 1874

I feel a little unwell. Audiffret reappears with the Marquis de Saëtone — I didn't blush, thank God.
Catching sight of him again later, I concluded he would be at the theatre; they are giving Orphée with a new singer, Nina Laffite. I go to the theatre on account of Audiffret and on account of the singer. For pity's sake, no one should suppose this man pleases me — he does not please me in the least, but he is the only one here. And I am bored, and I call him dear Audiffret just as I once called Galula the dear Niçois. Ange is with us, I am in white, my hair done rather well; she introduced us to General Bihovetz, a Pole who has been courting her.
I have never attended a more detestable performance — monstrously ugly and impossible even in a two-penny café. Words cannot begin to describe it; one has to see it to believe that a director could so brazenly mock his audience.
The newcomer Laffite was hissed at her very first song. Only Fiste comes off with credit, but Fiste stands alone. The chorus girls and extras are hideous — brown hands and yellow arms, black ankle-boots, their hair done worse than kitchen maids — and this was supposed to represent the goddesses of Olympus. Good heavens. Diana was our very own Madeleine, the monstrous seamstress, so completely so that in our household Madeleine has come to mean something monstrous and ugly, an accomplished abomination. This time it was not only for her ugliness and her voice that Diana was a Madeleine, but equally for her face and her pronunciation — at the ends of her couplets, ton ton etc., she sang so out of tune that the audience broke into shouts and laughter. I watched to see what effect this splendid spectacle was producing on the pit and the front rows — well, people were covering their eyes with their hands and laughing. Audiffret was there, as I had expected; he looked at me several times through his opera glasses, but I think he really ought always to wear his hat, for without it he is plain.
At the door of our house I remarked:
— Saëtone really is the handsomest.
— And your gentleman? asked Maman.
— You mean Audiffret — how very strange you are.
My mother indeed believes this little one pleases me and is rather put out about it. Not that her silly jokes weren't encouraging me to take notice of him.

Notes

In English in the original.