Editors’ note

Friday, 2 July 1875

[Five lines crossed out]
In this evening’s Figaro we read: Wanted: attractive young men, well-bred, in Nice.
They are going off to Monaco. I hate that: I am alone and can go nowhere except to Nina’s.
I put on my new dress from Worth, which is not in my style. It is an elegant dress, but not the way I like; it lacks poetry. Almost the first thing Marie said was:
My dear, he made you a declaration outright!
Who? I asked calmly. I thought she meant Fiouloulou in my dream.
What do you mean, who? Why, him — Girofla!
What nonsense, my dear girl, and we let me drop the subject.
Nina dresses and takes us to Rumpelmayer’s. She is a woman I like: she makes no fuss and is as mad as we are.
In the evening she tells us about her love affairs, her fine adventures. I cannot help doubting.
She was never beautiful. True, one does not need beauty for that.
I have a new torment.
For the benefit of those poor flood victims of Toulouse and elsewhere, they are going to organise fêtes, country balls, collections, etc., etc.
De Mouzay came on Wednesday to tell us that they want to invite us to be lady patronesses (she left yesterday). She told us someone would call on us about it. Nobody calls, and I hear nothing more of it. My God, will you make me suffer the vexation of attending these fêtes as an outsider, a nobody, while everyone else takes part? Even in summer — nothing, nothing!
It is terrible.
By heaven! Nice gives me nothing but vexations and sorrows. I want to leave this accursed town that treats me so badly.
This winter I so longed to sell at the stalls in the Square Masséna.
I watched all those happy teases — teases, nothing more. And I, wretched, off to one side, in the shadows, walking about that vile garden. What is the good of having such a fête if one is not part of it?
I lament in advance because I am full of doubts and uncertainties, from being so used to seeing every pleasure pass under my nose.
Truly, in these detestable moments I feel inclined to marry the Russian. That sort of Russian Audiffret! Oh no.
I may hope for better.
Yes, better — can you, stupid creature, boast of having been happy so far?
I may hope for better!
And what gives me that assurance? Are we not in the most execrable of positions? Scorned even in Nice, even by the vile women here. And why?
We did not know how to establish ourselves in the first place, and later on my dear uncle Georges made us so many good friends that I could strangle him!

Notes

In French in the original: comme il faut. ↩
In English in the original. ↩