Saturday, 12 June 1875

De Mouzay spends an hour with me; Yourkoff leaves at two for Switzerland, and all our party goes to the station to see him off.
Maman goes off to Monaco with the Sapogenikoffs; my aunt and I go to the beach, and Lucie places both her hands on my shoulders.
Saëtone, Godard, the son-in-law of Decrais, prefect here, and two others sit opposite us, with the Durands on the right. The sea is very rough — the waves blue and enormous — yet Mme d'Auzac goes bathing; that woman looks like a lizard.
I was thinking of leaving when Girofla arrived, and all eyes fixed upon me. Fortunately I did not blush. Saëtone especially watches in the manner of an uncle observing his nephews. Since I told Girofla that I call Saëtone "Enoteas" and his uncle, he speaks of him as his uncle, which makes me laugh a great deal. I laugh too much — but is it better to weep?
This man speaks of a dinner at sea — the weather does not permit it; a pity — the Durands would be sick with envy.
In place of that outing he is taking us Tuesday to I know not where — Saint-Jean, I believe. He recounted how Mme Prodgers had invited herself to luncheon at his house, and how he, having forgotten it, she arrived and was not let in:
— Monsieur is in bed.
As we were leaving the baths, little Prodgers came to hand him a letter from her mama, in which she told him either to have her to luncheon or to come to dinner at hers.
One really does not know how to name such a woman, how to interpret such behaviour.
Well!
Girofla spends the evening with us. He is very amusing. He recounted how he escaped from Switzerland — being with the army that had taken refuge there — in a brown coat lent him by a Swiss. How he was with another gentleman, and to soften the stern Helvetian they told him they were brothers, that their mother was weeping for them — whereupon the Swiss's wife burst into tears and forced her husband to lend them clothes.
Then he said his father is expected this evening.
But truly he is a very amusing young man and tells a story with great vivacity — only I am becoming vulgar from constant exposure to his ways.
Since I have known him I swear like a man and at home my manners are deplorable. Involuntarily I speak like this man and pick up all his habits. At home, of course — not in public.
He is certainly not a Hamilton — one cannot expect too much.
I hope one understands how a person of that sort can please me — of Girofla's sort, it goes without saying.
It takes so much to truly please me!
Besides, I feel absolutely incapable of love — for two reasons. The first is that I love the Duke; and the second is that love is a degrading sentiment for a woman.
The foolish people around me think I am in love. Forgive them, my God — they know not what they do. I take great pleasure in looking at Audiffret, and he doubtless does likewise, for he looks at me as I look at him, and we never speak without smiling.
Maman and my aunt are certain he is in love with me and talk of nothing else. At the moment it is the subject of our conversations morning and evening.
I have an idea that Girofla thinks of me as I think of him, and in the same manner that I think of him. That is not very flattering.
In truth I believe it myself — everything points to it. For four years we have been in the same town, seeing each other every day. We even entertained a little, and it never occurred to him to get himself introduced. Now our doors are closed, my mother is ill — but I have grown up, and here he comes. He comes often; he goes where we go; he arranges excursions; he invents all manner of amusements; he goes where we go.
Why? For whom? For me. Well, it is evident — and yet by that same false shame and modesty I am never sure of it.
Maman often says: At Moussia's there will be many young men — naturally, now she has captured the best one in Nice and all of them court her and want to make her acquaintance. Ah, what a girl! She wanted, and she has got the biggest lobster in Nice. What has she done? What has she not done? And in the end she has obtained what she wanted.
It is partly true.
Since I have been, we have begun to be.
Come now, my girl — do not despair; you are making a good start, and Deo juvante all will go well.

Notes

A reference to the French Army of the East (Bourbaki's army), which was interned in Switzerland after being trapped there during the Franco-Prussian War (1871).
"Deo juvante" — Latin: "with God's help."