Sunday, 25 April

I wake at quarter to twelve. Towards two o'clock I have lunch with everyone. By three o'clock I am ready — (Archduke dress, Watteau hat, yellow ankle-boots, good) — and not at all tired; fresh and rosy. Maman comes out with me, Walitsky, and Dina in a half-closed carriage. We go to Nina's; Maman gets down; the Sapogenikoffs too have an Easter table, and I eat and drink at their house.
The priest was right to ask if I was greedy. I am — In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti. Amen.
Maman plays with Nina's adorable little monkey, and I recount my confession with a few embellishments. Everyone laughs, and I laugh, and I am content.
My aunt and Collignon arrive half an hour after us, and they tell — or rather, Collignon tells — that Audiffret has been drenched with the hose, that my aunt drenched him. This, naturally, sends us into fits of laughter. But it is quite untrue: [Crossed out: as I have] it is my aunt who invented it — she wants to drench him, she says:
"And why?"
It seems Collignon had gone into the garden and sat down under Maman's awning on the terrace. Audiffret drives slowly past, looks over, coughs, then gets down, sits on the bench opposite the villa, dusts off his trousers and his boots, looks again, coughs again, and performs a thousand affectations. These are Collignon's exact words — and she is a woman who never invents, never exaggerates, never embellishes, and whom I believe as I believe myself.
"Ah! but you should have seen him bolt when he saw me!" she adds in conclusion.
My aunt looks very displeased.
"But why was he there?" I asked.
"We were going to ask you the very same thing," said Collignon, laughing. "We thought you had given him an assignation."
"Nonsense!"
But he had absolutely every appearance of it — it was truly ridiculous. He is nothing but a buffoon.
It seems also that every day he passes at the same hour — I no longer know who said so; everyone, I think: Dina, my aunt, Collignon, Maman — all of them.
And Collignon says he fled like a startled fawn the moment he saw her.
Oh, if he had really come for...
No — that would be too comical.
At half past five, after much laughing, much crying out, much chattering about Girotta, I go with Collignon, Dina, and Olga to the Promenade, where we encounter the hero — the imbecile — twice over.
Coming home later with my aunt, Maman, and Walitsky, my aunt declares with a very severe air that this man comes with the most dishonourable intentions. Maman is sure he comes with the most innocent intentions in the world, and perhaps by pure chance at that.
That may be so — but it may also be that he comes to give the impression I have been giving him assignations. If I ever catch him prowling about the garden alone, as he is said to have prowled today, I shall have the gardener soak him from head to foot.
My aunt has expressed the same intention. Poor creature — I should like to see him dripping with water and other things besides, for my aunt does not wish to confine herself to water. I both laugh and get angry. This man is nothing but a boor, an imbecile, a conceited fop.

Notes

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Marie solemnly invokes the liturgical formula to certify her gluttony.