Tuesday, 8 June 1875

Collignon, Dina, and I train our opera glasses for ten minutes on a white shape on the tower, unable to make out what it is. I think it was nothing but a sheet — it had a square shape. The château windows hermetically shut, but two of the old house, usually closed, open.
Who lives in that yellow house to the left of the château? Dina asked him yesterday.
— [Crossed out: It belongs to the old] It's mine — no one lives there, but I go there sometimes.
Of course! The young man was there.
But we were not compromising ourselves — there were three of us. Around two o'clock the white shape disappeared.
I am ugly and tired.
Girofla is nowhere to be encountered, and already it seems to me that he no longer wishes to know us. I know it is stupid, absurd — but we are so wretched here that I expect the worst. (Writing this, I become almost pretty.)
After dinner Dina is on the terrace — I think of going to join her just as she comes in. A pity. I might have seen Audiffret.
I should like to know, if by some chance my diary were to be read, whether anyone would think I am thinking of the Duke of Hamilton while talking of the handsome man from Nice.
I dreamed I was on a raised dais, and the walls were draped in beautiful dark-red fabrics, in great folds with tassels of the same colour. Which means I shall attain either great wealth or great renown. Would to heaven!
For after all — for a summer, in Nice — an amusement like Audiffret suits me perfectly.
But after this summer I want to go into society and occupy myself with others than young men from Nice, however handsome they may be.
My God, always to You I turn — hear my most humble prayer, do not forsake me, and take all my proud words as so many acts of humiliation before You. Before You alone I abase myself, and from You alone I await what I implore You to grant me.
Jesus, and You, Holy Virgin, pray God to look upon me with favour!