Tuesday, 22 June 1875

Yesterday I read the cards for the Niçois rascal. He is in trouble over money, but he will soon have some and will be happy and content. I read the cards for myself, and they tell me everything one could wish for.
I find my journal of these last few days stupid. Everything is disjointed; I skip about; I write down the simplest things as one writes down remarkable events. I note what ought to be told in sequence, or not told at all.
I am in a hurry, I am distracted, and my journal suffers for it. Is the astonishing but stupid Emile d’Audiffret (as in one of the slips of paper the night before last) the cause of it? I believe so. I think a great deal about that young man. They shout at me — no, I am mistaken — or rather they do not shout anything at me at all. But yesterday [One line crossed out] I overheard from my room (they thought I had gone out) a conversation between my aunt, Maman and Walitsky in which they were telling one another how much Audiffret was in love with me.
By Jove! Am I to believe them? Never, my girl, never! Believe only what you find out for yourself.
That is what I always do. I suppose everything and believe nothing.
It is raining, and to make the time pass more quickly I spend my afternoon in sweet idleness. Tomorrow Audiffer leaves — for Milan, he says, and I think for Marseilles, to pay court to the rich aunt and get money out of her. He is very hard up just now.
I should like to see him before this stupid departure.
It is very cool and damp (since it is raining, silly!); I dress as if for winter, grey dress, grey felt hat. I see with pleasure that I was divinely dressed this winter.
I always want to convey the charm and incomparable elegance of that grey ensemble, and it is quite pointless — one need only ask those who saw it.
I look charming like this. By Jove! I say, on reaching the café. The café is closed. What a treat! The only place where one can meet when it rains.
We go to Nina’s; I take Maman, my aunt and the horrid Smirnoff to the station and bring the Sapogenikoffs back to our house.
I find two of Audiffret’s cards on the table, but not to take leave — no doubt he forgot the p.p.c.
in the marginannotation ultérieure de Marie, 1877
[Annotation: 1877. Those two cards gave me more pleasure than if I had received two hundred thousand francs.]
By Jove, I am vexed. That man made me forget the dreariness of Nice a little. The horror of it all is that there is no one to replace him! No one — with the best will in the world, no one.
Godard is only a boy, the others are dreadful bumpkins — but Godard is rather a bumpkin himself. At dinner we recall the little slips of paper from Saturday. Mine read as follows:
The astonishing but stupid Emile d’Audiffret and the blonde or red-haired Mlle Bashkirtseff met at the tower:
“Dear angel, the apricots are ripening,” says Audiffret.
“If you think you amuse me!” Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff answers him. Many tears resulted, and the world said: “What idiots!”
In several others there were the idiot Girofla, the cretin Audiffret, the drunkard Audiffret, etc., etc.
I laugh as I remember this nonsense. Chance produced incredible encounters. I know of no more amusing game.
With Maman I read the cards again. For me there are four aces and four tens. It is supernaturally fine. There is also the love of a dark king, a journey, and sorrow on account of this king. By Jove! That is impossible.
The cards cannot make clear whether it is sorrow for me on account of the king, or sorrow for the king on account of me.
I rather believe the latter, for I cannot seriously miss him. For several hours today I did miss him, and now I am perfectly resigned to spending this week without him.
I shall feel his absence in Nice, where there is no one, where he alone enlivened my dreary vegetating, because he is young and handsome and because it seems to me that he likes me; but anywhere else I should feel nothing. Let us be clear: provided there is another to replace him. I am always and everywhere bored when I have no one.
Today, for a moment, I took fright. Feeling so much put out by this young pig’s departure, I asked myself whether, for all my laughing, I had not become infatuated with him. But it was only for an instant. He pleases me, I say it a hundred times; let another come along under the right conditions, and that other will please me too. Is it clear what I mean by “please”? Every young plobster pleases me.
When I read the cards for Audiffer, this is what they told him: a fair lady at his heart, great troubles on account of money, a journey that will bring him money, and everything ends in great joy. I interpret it thus: he is in love with me, he has not a penny, he will go to Marseilles to that aunt, who will give him what he lacks, and he will come back quite content.
We shall see whether it is true. As for me, I cannot hope that the cards tell me the truth. They tell me too much good for it to be true. If one interprets them, this is how one must interpret them: “The Duke of Hamilton will divorce or his wife will die, you will marry him, you will go where you wish to go, you will be received as a freemason, you will be worth millions.”
“In a word, you will have everything you can desire. You will be a queen.” For several days now, and several times running, these blessed cards have been telling me these fine things.
Should one believe them? It would be too wonderful; no, the Duke of Hamilton will not marry me.
And who knows, perhaps I shall have something better. No, I know of nothing better, because I love him. The sort of inclination I have for the pretty Niçois is to that love what varnish is to an old painting. All the colours come out again, one can make out the figures; it is like a freshly painted picture.
How I should like to be seen this evening, in a long white dress, a large Valenciennes fichu fastened at the bosom by a fresh pink hydrangea, and another, larger hydrangea at the waist. My hair is done in the antique style [Three lines crossed out] — not in the ugly way one sees on hideous statues, but prettily, gracefully, with my own golden hair. And this style becomes me, and I am pleased with myself.
To spend a week like a clock without a pendulum. By Jove!
The little fellow paid me a great deal of attention, for he told me one day that every evening I do my hair at my window between two candles.
“The curtains are drawn, Monsieur.”
“Yes, but one can see the lighted candles, the shadow, and the two arms raised, arranging something.”
Then another time he told me that he had seen a candle, or that he had seen me at the window. In a word, he spends his time watching our house from the Rue de France and the Promenade des Anglais. For to know what he knows, that is what it takes.
Well, you silly girl, what does that prove? It proves that he is more taken up with you than he should be, and that your vanity ought to be satisfied.
Yes, all that is so, but I cannot rid myself of these everlasting doubts that spoil so many things for me. Above all it is the memory of that accursed Gericke that spoils everything. I do nothing the way I did at Spa, or the way I did with him, for fear the same thing should happen again. In everything I fear contagion, as with illnesses.
I am going to read the cards to ask them whether I [should] believe them. No doubt offended that I have questioned their truthfulness, they give no answer to my question but predict a joyful meeting with a dark king, a journey, and that I shall see two ladies.
But that is their answer! I shall see these things come to pass and they will prove to me that they tell the truth.
Let us remember carefully: at the meeting that I shall see this dark king, which will give me great pleasure, then meeting these two ladies, who are arriving from a journey, and two kings. An indifferent king and a king in love, besides the dark king. This king in love may well be a king of marriage, since he is of diamonds, as I am.
I am becoming quite stupid with these cards. They are my pastime. Dreams and cards. I am reading Herodotus, and one will understand that one needs distractions during such reading. It is interesting, but it cannot be swallowed in a day like a novel. One must read with [One line crossed out] attention, remember the earlier events and think about what one is reading.

Notes

In French in the original: Bigre ! ↩
P.P.C.: pour prendre congé (to take one’s leave) — written on a calling card left to announce one’s departure. ↩
“plobster” — Marie’s private code word for an eligible young admirer; kept as she wrote it. ↩