Wednesday, 2 June 1875

Let anyone come and tell me again that I am a madwoman with an overactive imagination.
There is something extraordinary in my head, and I would not abandon my dreams for anything in the world. One knows or does not know that as I fall asleep I have the habit of composing in my mind all sorts of stories — light, serious, amorous, tragic, surprising, always ambitious and once a year, simple.
Well — one evening this winter I pictured myself in a white dress, in a hat like the one I wear now (which did not then exist), with a pale parasol lined with pink, walking along the Promenade des Anglais — almost deserted as is right in summer — with Audiffret.
Today at half past five I go to the baths with my aunt — dressed exactly as I just described — and Audiffret, on catching sight of us, turns his carriage around and arrives two minutes after us. I bathe.
— Well, the bath? he says when I emerge from the cabin.
— Excellent, but a little cold. I was lying — I was warm.
— Ah! if it is cold, exclaims my aunt, one must walk.
And we walk — I in the middle, Audiffret on the left, my aunt on the right.
Exactly as I had imagined. Since the other evening, the picture has presented itself to me some ten times — always in the same way.
Today it is reality.
It is no doubt a perfectly simple thing, but remarkable because of the way it comes to pass — and besides, it is not the only instance.
Once at Baden something similar happened to me — and more recently at Nice on the day I saw the Duke, 13 December 1872.
It is curious — and if everything I imagine comes true in this way, I shall be satisfied.
It is Hamilton who is the axis around which all my daydreams revolve.
Well — if what I have imagined of him comes true, I shall have nothing more to ask.
So we walk — and the habitués of the Promenade open wide eyes, the Durands more than the others. One knows about the quarrel between the Durands and the Audiffrets.
Montecchi e Capuleti.
Very well — tomorrow all Nice will say he is in love with me and within a week that I am marrying him.
Yourkoff and Walitsky approach us and Girofla takes his leave as we get into the carriage, pressing my hand so hard that I think of it all day — and when I think of it I feel that pressure of the hand, and it strikes me as not entirely innocent.
[Annotation: I feel it still even now in 1877. I feel it no more in 1880.]
He asked permission to come to us in the evening. My aunt told him to come tomorrow. Tomorrow we make music together as a family.
The whole household speaks to me of Audiffer — they laugh and whisper, and I smile; I cannot help it.
[Written across the page: Disastrous encouragements from an idle and imprudent family — younger than me in judgment.]

Notes

Montecchi e Capuleti: Italian — the Montagues and Capulets (from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet). Marie compares the Durand-Audiffret feud to the Verona families. In Italian in the original.