Wednesday, 30 June 1875

Collignon leaves at two o’clock.
I had the idea that I might chance to see Audiffret arrive. The train that comes in from Italy leaves again for Paris a few minutes later.
We — my aunt, Dina, Collignon and I — arrive ten minutes before the departure; the passengers had long since got off.
Next to the compartment where Collignon was, there was a sleeping coupé, and in this coupé there was a young man, and this young man leaned half his body out of the window and never took his eyes off me. I only caught a glimpse of him, but as soon as I had noticed his looks I paid no more attention to what was being said — only my lips were talking — and in spite of myself, while kissing Collignon, I looked at the man, but only once. The train stayed a few minutes more in the station, and the man did not look away. It amused me in earnest.
The train was already moving; I walked alongside it for a few steps, talking to Collignon, and I could feel those eyes.
Everyone noticed it, and at table they say so out loud.
Then he ought to have stayed, says Maman.
Oh! that would have been a romance, and romances do not happen to me.
And why should they not happen to me?
I go to the baths and bathe; I dive, I jump, I do everything I know how to do.
My aunt is quite surrounded by Bihovetz, Smirnoff, Enoteas and Walitsky.
Collignon has gone, and Papa shouts and rages at all of us.
An old story.
The windows of the château have deceived me again. They were open, as though someone had arrived. I thought I should be more bored without that scamp.
I have not been any more bored than usual in Nice; I have hardly felt the absence of the handsome Niçois.
How displeased he would be to know it!
written across the page
That is not true.
My uncle does not come! It would have been better to say he was not coming; at least we would know what to do!
Ah! these Babanines, what disorderly people!
Paul writes that they are expecting me. I am bored, I want to go.
I have designed some dresses that now have to be made up, and it is a bother.
I have put on a jacket of Maman’s from when she was sixteen, twenty-two years ago. It is a grey Louis XIV jacket in dark red velvet embroidered with gold.
It fits me like a glove and is still fresh.
What an admirable figure my mother had!
Yes, she was very beautiful; she would be beautiful and shapely still if illness had not treated her so cruelly. She can neither wear a corset nor do her hair, and lately she has been quite worn out and ill and to be pitied.
I have sewn a lace ruff on to this jacket, which is open in front; nothing could be whiter than my skin, and I look admirable in it.
Dessin à la plume d'une jeune femme de face, cheveux relevés, une fraise de dentelle autour du cou, casaque ouverte devant
Buste de femme en casaque à fraise de dentelle Mon Journal, t. 5 (fac-similé) — tome05.docx image 5 (après ¶2464)
I do believe the women of those days were beautiful. With my face one would have passed for a beauty, and a beauty passed for a goddess!
That velvet, those open necklines, that lace, those long, close-fitting waists that set off a woman’s figure, those long gowns and rich fabrics, those coiffures, so poetic. Not the ugly heads of today, all the hair gathered up in ugly little curls, or all scraped up — in a word, ugly.
Dina interrupts me to show me Audiffret’s window, lit up, and from my dark study, with an opera glass, we see a man at the window with both arms raised as if holding an opera glass. It would have been funny if he had been doing what we were doing.
Only nobody can see us; we are in the dark.

Notes

In French in the original: casaque — a loose jacket or bodice; this one, Maman’s from her girlhood, is open in front. ↩