Saturday, 30 January 1875

The weather is grey, and I was wanting to go out; barely had I begun to do my hair when Mlle Collignon was announced, and almost simultaneously Mme Sapogenikoff and the children. Collignon goes to her doctor, my aunt and Mme Sapogenikoff to look at apartments, and I with Paul and the children to the Promenade. Contrary to all appearances, the grey cold day has turned into a fine sunny one. It is very obliging of me, I find, to stay with Marie and Olga — at sixteen and fourteen they are little girls of ten, and I have to make myself so much younger that it is tiring.
[Written across: Yet Marie was more than sixteen — but so small.]
At the very moment when I was most bored and, as my sole contribution to the conversation, was displaying a smile that encouraged the children to prattle and giggle — no, decidedly I am neither young enough nor old enough to enjoy children's company — at that very moment, I say, the devil came to my rescue in the middle of the Narrows, as yesterday.
I do not like seeing him every day on foot at the Promenade. Hamilton did not do that. For everything that pleases me must be measured against that eternal and divine model. On catching sight of him I stared at him with deliberate ostentation, turning my head and body entirely until he had [Words blacked out: raised his] eyes — he felt himself watched and raised them despite himself.
Yesterday, seeing him speak with those young ladies, I was deeply moved — because in exactly the same way I had seen the Duke of Hamilton for the first time, in the same spot, in the same pose, and likewise speaking to two ladies, while I too was in a carriage, turning near the public garden.
I saw him once more, then he vanished, and I went home to stay with Collignon. The Sapogenikoffs dine with us; my aunt takes the children to the opera; Mme Sapogenikoff goes home; and I stay with Collignon before my mirror, and we talk of all sorts of things. I was telling her I wished to marry, and she told me that at Cannes there is a Duke of Montrose — handsome and twenty-three years old.
— Well then, that is my affair — send him to me.
— Do you know at Cannes, I went on, a Sir Frederic Johnstone?
— No. Why do you ask me that?
— Because he is very fine and I have noticed him. No, truly, I shall tell you — there is not a man in Nice; and when he and one other and his friend appeared, they were like two clean shirts among dirty laundry.