Wednesday, 16 June 1875

My nose hurts, it is swelling, and I am in a frightful temper.
This nose makes me melancholy. In spite of it I go to the baths with a double veil.
Audiffret was there — I could see his carriage. I had Collignon and Marie get out first; they went to join my aunt, Olga and Dina, who were already there. I go only a minute later; Audiffret hears me, turns round, and I say to him:
— Good morning, Philippe! — but he says it too.
I go down the steps laughing and blushing, and we take Saetone as judge. No one knows who has won. Besides, Girofla seems not to care, which discourages me.
He throws cold water in my face — he does it on purpose, and I fret. He talks only to Olga, and to me only when he must or when I speak to him. Quick, quick, my diary! I cried inwardly the moment I left the baths.
Yes, my dear, my only confidant, who shares my vexations and my rages!
See what I am like: I am jealous of Olga. It is stupid, but true. She is a little girl, and the man, to enrage me, talks only to her and pays attention to no one else.
We walk home, and I take her arm and smile at her — I should like to beat her. To take a cane to her, box her ears, kick her, pull her hair down and send her rolling into the street!
By Jove! — “by Jove” is Girofla’s word. See what we are like: I know he behaves like this on purpose, to enrage me — I know it, and I rage in spite of everything.
See how, over a mere nothing, every earthworm, every unworthy animal is able to torment me, and knows how!
I am the most tormentable creature in the world. And how wrong that is! I am at the mercy of every imbecile. Dear God, how cross it makes me.
Devil take it! If God so wills, this creature shall pay me for it! Oh, yes!
See — merely thinking of revenge does one good. What wounds me most is what our people at home will say. Maman and my aunt, who have stupidly imagined a thousand foolish things, who talk of nothing else, and who will see it all come to nothing. And they will look at me with anxiety and regret; they will think it best to say nothing to me, and will only look.
But that is worse. Oh, how detestable it is! I want to write a great deal, to pass a little of my anger on to this good paper that accepts everything. And that girl went off to Monaco at eight o’clock with my aunt, her mother, Dina and Marie, because the man said he would be going. She is all flushed and excited.
I am not in the least worried — she is a child who is no match for me — but I am furious because he thinks he can torment me.
I believe I carried myself quite well, very well even. Only I am tormented inside; I cannot shout it aloud, and that is bad for the health and for the complexion.
And to think that all this is over an Audiffret. Confound it! No, this is tiresome — I am swearing, I am talking nonsense. Well then! I say what I think. I am unhappy because of what they will think at home, and not because of that man.
It is so absurd, the way we carry on at home. They invent things, they laugh, they tease me, and then one fine day the man turns away and everyone is left soaking in lukewarm water, displeased — and, most curious of all, cross with me. They seize on everything I say, they try to find me changed or out of sorts, they say to me: — But what is the matter with you? or else: — You must be ill, since you are being so capricious.
Do you understand what I mean, and do you know of anything more detestable?
That is why I rage, that is why I should like to thrash someone, smash something!
Even writing it relieves me. If only I could do it! But Maman is unwell, and a commotion would do no good. My nose hurts and I probably shan’t go out tomorrow. So long as Olga notices nothing — she would be far too proud. I don’t believe I have said what she looks like. She is dark and pretty, with a fine complexion, disdainful lips and grey eyes. Short hair, and not much of it.
The other day I described her figure. As for wit, she has some at times; manners, none at all. She is even rather free and easy, and has an ungainly carriage and a waist a little askew. But what has her face to do with it?
That imbecile picks her as he would pick Dina or Marie. Olga is the prettiest, the least constrained. No matter — I am horribly piqued. Why am I so proud, why am I not all-powerful! I am humiliated to let myself be caught by his nonsense; I am angry with myself. What is to be done, ita Deus me iccil! I believe I am making a mistake. No matter — I want to speak Latin, I want to smoke, I want to drink, I want, I want everything tonight.
O Muse, sing not the wrath of Achilles, but sing mine!
I am going to bed to cut short this disgusting evening; no doubt I shall be calm tomorrow. Writing calms me. But no — I am furious at being furious. I am vexed at being vexed.
I should like to be indifferent and look down on human miseries from the height of a pedestal. Young as I still am, I think I know a great deal, and I do know a great deal, but what I know is of no use to me. I let myself be caught by everything; I yield to every influence. And that is what makes me rage — and how I rage!
I rage at raging. I am humiliated at being sensitive to everything. I am furious above all because Audiffret thinks he can torment me. Do you understand that! To avenge myself! and to prove that no one torments me.
That is what I ask of God!
Why all this anger, my beauty, since you know it is being done on purpose? I know it, of course! I know it perfectly well.
Understand, then, what vexes me: it is not M. Audiffret, it is what they will say at home — and because he thinks I am his, and because he is preening, because he wants to make me suffer.
That is what sets everything upside down boiling inside me. I want people to think me inflexible, unassailable, insensible to everything. Not from want of heart or spirit, but from pride, from too high an opinion of my own person. I want people to bow down before me! I want no one to dare believe that a single man in the world could touch me. I want people to know me. No — that I do not want, for they would run from me. Is it pleasant for a man to love and be ill-treated, tormented and sent away? For that is what I intend, now more than ever. What can an unmarried girl do!
I should like the love and homage of the whole world. By the way, does anyone know that I am exceedingly susceptible to humility, to courtesy, to exquisite gallantry? With humble and submissive airs — provided he is not disagreeable to me, like the Pole — a man can make me the most submissive and gentle of creatures. But with airs of conquest and disdain he makes me furious, enraged and as wicked as the devil.
If, after those disdainful airs, I saw the person come back submissive and imploring, I believe I should weep for joy, and far from taking advantage I should be kind and charming.

Notes

In French in the original: Bigre ! bigre c’est le mot de Girofla. — bigre, a mild oath (a euphemism for bougre). ↩
In French in the original: Ventre Saint-Gris ! — the favourite oath of Henri IV. ↩
In French in the original: Mort de ma vie ! — an archaic, theatrical oath (literally “death of my life”), familiar from classical French comedy. ↩
In Latin in the original: ita Deus me iccil ! Kept in Latin, garbled as Marie wrote it, because the next sentence turns on her mistake; perhaps meant for a formula such as ita me Deus adjuvet (“so help me God”). ↩
In Italian in the original: Mi vendicar ! ↩