Wednesday, 24 March 1875

Paul accompanies me to Laussel's; on the way back I run into Terffidua — he really is better in a carriage and in a top hat than on foot with a soft hat.
This evening the Stabat Mater is being sung — lit to full brilliance (white dress, Worth,^[Worth: the house of Charles Frederick Worth, the most prestigious Paris couturier of the era.] false-hair coiffure, very good). Nadia and the children are with me.
Tonight's performance is elegant and lively — the last glimmer of the season, and a brilliant glimmer at that compared to the season itself, which has been rather thin.
Mademoiselle Denysson is beside me and we are the two prettiest girls in Nice. The Howards are a little further away, red as peonies — Hélène with her pinched face and no eyebrows, and Lise with her look of a frightened sheep.
Opposite us, Terffidua with another young man, equally fresh-looking but plainer. I am in an impossible humor — seated upright and silent, I had death in my soul.
With each day, each hour, my torment increases — because each day and each hour passes without bringing anything good, and I am growing older. Let no one mock me — I know perfectly well that I am not old and will not be for a long time yet, but time passes, flies, imperceptibly. Minutes make hours, hours make days, days make months, months make years. Was it long ago that I was eleven, when I left Russia? It seems like a week. Well, I shall find myself twenty just as quickly as I found myself sixteen. Four years — four days. But what days!
No one does anything for me — I have only God! My God, whom I deny in terrible moments that have nothing to do with me. What Maman and my aunt feel for me is not love — it is a selfish feeling that pleases themselves. They think of nothing and believe one can live as we live. (I cannot see — tears prevent me from seeing what I am writing.)
I shall wear myself out with these sorrows, and they ask me why I am pale when I am pale — why I grow thin. Blind fools, selfish idiots!
I rage, shut myself in the dressing room and there smoke and read Caesar^[Julius Caesar's Gallic Wars (De Bello Gallico): part of Marie's Latin studies with Brunet.] with ferocious concentration.
I try every kind of imaginary tale to get to sleep, but nothing works — I cannot invent anything and fall asleep, utterly exhausted.