[Annotation, August 1875: like Epicurus?]^[Marie's marginal note added in August 1875 — Epicurus (341-270 BC) famously gathered his followers to live together in his Athenian garden.]

Sacha and his wife are leaving for Russia, taking Paul with them; Maman goes to Cannes with Dina and Walitsky. Botkine will spend a week in Cannes and has told her to go there so he may see her more often. Maman weeps, Paul weeps (deep down I am moved and inclined to think him less bad than he is); Nadia weeps, Sacha weeps, Catherine weeps, Dina weeps, Walitsky weeps, Trifon, grandfather weeps! Phew! There would have been enough to fill a basin. I should like to analyse the tears chemically, and also to know [two words crossed out] and the moral causes that brought them forth. Oh — I nearly forgot to say that Paris wept too, and at the station Pelikan wept as well.

We all go to the station; Maman departs at two o'clock; until three we remain in the buffet. We were already in the carriage when Nadinka cries out: There is Prince Tchelesky! Indeed it was the adorable Prince, preceded by two cocottes. And that is little for him — for this rake, this Lovelace,^["Lovelace" — the archetypal literary seducer from Samuel Richardson's novel Clarissa (1748).] this Don Juan. For being what he is, he is all the more beloved, and I understand perfectly that he should be in every divorce court,^[In English in the original — as reported by an English acquaintance named Rickard.] as Rickard was saying the other day.

Women give themselves to so many unworthy nobodies that it would be absurd to resist a prince like that. As we approached Monte Carlo, Stiopa wound his arms around me and in his little voice begged me to come with them to Russia — after five minutes I was exasperated and held myself back with difficulty from giving him a jab with my elbow to make him leave me in peace.

Fortunately we arrive; one embraces again and again; then the train departs.

At the first table on the left the Prince is playing — or rather, an Englishman plays for him while he stands behind this Englishman.

He is charming — such a fresh, white complexion. The more I look at him the more he pleases me; he is not handsome, but there is something agreeable, amiable, and gallant about him, with very little true distinction. He spoke English and then French with that delightful accent of the Hamilton kind of Englishmen. I was so eager to watch and listen to him that I did not understand a single word he said. To judge by the exalted way I write about it, one would think I watched him with a face of vulgar curiosity. Not at all — I watched him with as indifferent an air as if I were looking at a dog or a door.

He went to play at trente-et-quarante and I followed a few moments later. But I recall that it is time to leave; we go downstairs, the train is in the station and no one is allowed through any further; for nothing in the world would I have remained — we take a cab.

At that moment the Prince, surrounded by his gentlemen and Jarochewsky, was talking to the Countess de Galve. Fortunate creature! There is another success.

Who was she born? Mademoiselle Basilewsky — no more than Mademoiselle Bachkirseff [sic], in fact rather less, since her uncle was a priest, and priests in Russia… Who did she marry in her first marriage? A Monsieur Bravura — a music teacher or a bookkeeper in a large shop, I no longer recall which of the two. And now she divorces and marries the Comte de Galve, becomes a great lady, and so on and so forth. All of this ought to encourage me rather than drive me to despair. How it enrages me! This Galve, plainer, stupider, and more ignorant than I — and see, she lives in the grand monde, she goes to court, she knows princes, kings! Why, O God, make me envious by showing me that people lesser than myself have succeeded — oh! But wait — My God, do I not begin to understand? Is it not You who take pity on me and send me examples to give me courage and make me hope?

Yes, yes — this thought came to me at this very instant, at the moment I finished writing the word succeeded. If that is it, I thank You, my God — yes, yes, that is it; You would not permit this idea to enter my head if it were not the truth. Oh! Thank You, my God, thank You!

[Five lines cancelled: Friday, 2 April 1875. I forgot to say that having taken a cab we rejoined the train at Monaco and caught it.]

I had already locked away my diary, but when I said my prayers at an open window and raised my eyes to the sky I was struck by its beauty and cannot pass over it in silence. For you see, at night in Nice, by the sea — a sky scattered with stars that glitter like diamonds, an absolute silence broken only by the song of frogs and, from time to time, the distant whistle of a train, which, being a worldly and wholly prosaic invention, only throws into greater relief the sublimity of the scene. For you see, as I was saying, this is no ordinary spectacle. It is not a pleasure that can be appreciated at every age and with every degree of intelligence.

It seems to me that only I know how to admire, to love, to envy, and to suffer. Not merely does it seem so — I am certain of it.

I return to the window, but will write no more. What is the use? I write so poorly, and often so badly!