Monday, 7 June 1875

They say, he who laughs on Friday will weep on Sunday. I laugh all week long, Fridays included, and I do not weep.

I write to Mme de Mouzay and her daughter asking them to come — we have so neglected them this winter.

At four o’clock everything is ready — Audiffret arrives with the break¹ harnessed to four fine horses, and off we go. My aunt, myself, Dina, Marie, Olga, de Daillens, Yourkoff, Galula, and Audiffret. Maman, Collignon, and de Mouzay follow in the landau. We drive out to the banks of the Lou[p] (I don’t know how to spell the name) — the road is cool and pleasant. I love seeing Audiffret known to all the peasants, and especially to all the peasant girls. They call him M. Émile, and he has the air of being the native son of the place — but it is not enough merely to be the native son, one must also look the part. I am not in the mood to write; it is late. Yesterday evening it was agreed: frolicking from six to seven, and indeed we go frolicking — everything is so jolly that in trying to run across a fallen tree cut down that was there. my poor I fall flat on my stomach, but not ungracefully, and spring back up at once with a great deal of agility, and of grace, I believe.

M. Émile has us play the little-papers game — that is to say, one writes a lady’s name on a piece of paper, then passes it to someone else who, without looking at the name, must write a gentleman’s name, then the paper is passed again and a third person, still without looking, must write where they are going.

Then in the same manner one writes what they say to each other, what comes of it, and what society says about it. Everyone knows this game, of course. One combination came out very droll.

M. Saëtone and Mme Prodgers had gone to Rumpelmayer’s. “In my arms, baby,” said Prodgers. — “Yours truly again!” replied Saëtone. The result was: love. And society said: perfectly natural.

There were several others equally droll.

Audiffret called over a little shepherd boy and told him to give a bouquet to the most beautiful lady — and the little Paris awarded it to my aunt. If it is not true, it is well invented.²

I flirt with Yourkoff, who doesn’t quite know what that means and makes me laugh with his astonished eyes — and Girofla takes it seriously and thinks Yourkoff and I are engaged in a regular flirtation. Not bad at all. We dine on the meadow but, fortunately, with a proper table and chairs, not like at Spa. I am pleased to note several attentions from Girofla at dinner — which was bad, as dinners always are on such occasions.

I am pale and not pretty.

We play forfeits again. Audiffret conducts himself like an angel. And we appreciated his delicacy when it fell to Dina to kiss whoever stood under the candlestick: he went to fetch one, and just when everyone expected him to put it on his own head, he put it on Marie’s.

Maman admired this, and I said to myself: Suppose it had been Gericke!

— Ah yes, suppose it had been Gericke! Ugh, the filthy, impertinent man!

On the way back, Girofla and I were seated beside each other — and again he conducted himself like an angel. Oh! If in the darkness I had the misfortune to be seated next to Gericke in a carriage!

Witness the kiss I received on my right hand returning from the picnic at Spa. Truly he is pleasing and well-bred. Yourkoff attempted a few risqué jokes and Audiffret did not rise to them, did not even smile.

What was stupid was that we told them — Audiffret and Galula — that we called them Girofla and Fiouloulou. We were forced to do so by that beast Yourkoff, who threatened to reveal the business of the English girls, which Nina had disclosed to him with inconceivable stupidity.

We had to extricate ourselves somehow and chose the simplest the least difficult course... Audiffret had some trouble swallowing his nickname, which is fortunate — I had feared he might take it as a compliment. Fiouloulou laughed and amused us all, pronouncing the name in the most sentimental fashion imaginable while gazing up at the stars.

On the way back we sing. I sang Dormi pure³ and sang it well, doubtless leaning on the word Gioia.⁴ Then I sang the serenade from The Barber — Se il mio nome⁵ — equally well.

Then Yourkoff struck up Down Our Mother Volga⁶⁷ and we all joined in chorus. And finally we entered the town at eleven o’clock in the evening howling and barking and caterwauling ferociously.

— Tomorrow at the sea baths? Audiffret said to me, quietly enough to make my ears prick up.

— I don’t know, Monsieur.

— You never know when I ask you, he replied in the same tone, even more gently.

— I have lessons.

— Send your tutors packing, really, Mademoiselle.

— What is he saying? someone asked.

— Fatherly advice to a daughter, the man replies.

— Yes, said I — to send my tutors to the devil.

We leave de Daillens at her door, and the Sapogenikoffs and Pâris at theirs, so that we return home alone with the two men from Nice.

It displeases me to see Audiffret keeping company with that little Jew Galula⁸.

In helping me down from the break he pressed my hand so firmly that I blushed — fortunately it was dark — though in truth I had expected it.

And again the same upon saying goodbye. I expect it — and I like it. The man is young and handsome and pleases me well enough.

From the window I call Léonie.

— Ah, so this is the window! Audiffret calls up to me — he is only halfway across the street.

— No, this is the landing — mine is over there.

— The last one?

— But since you said you watch and see everything, my aunt has had the shutters lowered. Good night.

— Good night, Mademoiselle.

— Good night, Monsieur.

This young man pleases Maman.

— What a shame he is not a prince!⁹ she says as she goes to bed.

She and my aunt think I am in love.

Fools! No, not fools — for if I myself am astonished to be made as I am, all the more reason they should know nothing of it. Is it natural, indeed, that at sixteen one should have nothing but calculations in one’s heart and head? I don’t complain of it — quite the contrary.

Madame my mother is not pleased because I did not shine. I was out of sorts.

I am forgetting one thing.

Girofla, running through every song in existence, sang the one from Les Brigands which begins thus:

There was once a prince

Fair as the day.

Further on it says that all the ladies died of love for him and one in particular, the prettiest, went so far as to come to court. But instead of “came to court”, he sang “climbed the tower”¹⁰ — sending a smile to Galula as he did so.

My aunt opened her mouth to exclaim, but I pinched her so hard she fell silent.

Can you imagine!

Well, no — he does not know the English girls business; it is our escapade without disguise with that coachman who used to work for him that he is alluding to.

Those good girls Marie and Olga described the coachman to him and recounted what the coachman told us about him — Girofla — only last evening.

In any case, it is wrong.

I am neither pleased nor displeased. A tepid, insipid day. I laughed — but I come home at peace.