Saturday, 3 July 1875

At the sea baths we are with the Sapogenikoffs and Olga’s brother.
Enoteas merely bows and goes off to chat with some hideous monkeys. I slept five hours; I feel limp.
We are going to get tickets for the Café Américain. It is a garden where they put on little plays and there is singing. This evening it is for the benefit of the flood victims, and everyone is going.
Mmes de Ballore and Wykerslooth asked Maman to go.
We have two benches to ourselves. On the left, next to me, is Saëtone, and almost opposite, a little to one side, Girofla, in a straw hat and with the most Niçois air imaginable. On the way past I say good evening to my friend de Bauche and to M. de Ballore.
Godard, that darling Godard, is at a distance, but soon he moves closer to Fiouloulou, who is four benches in front of us.
This darling boy, with a behind as prominent as a woman’s, is paying court to my friend Fiouloulou. As he is (he, Godard) of no consequence, I look at him as much as I please. When Fiouloulou came over to me, he, my darling Godard, stood by a tree, where he stayed all evening and where from time to time I sought him out with my eyes.
Girofla was as melancholy as a lover, hardly spoke, watched the actors, then lowered his head and hid his face in his hands, or covered it with his dreadful hat, and from under the hat his beautiful black eyes fixed themselves on me so intently that I turned towards him involuntarily, as if spellbound, and the instant our eyes met I felt something like an electric shock and looked away — but not for long.
Then he would look with his face uncovered. I think he did it on purpose, enjoying the sight of the power of his two windows opening onto hell.
I am in the most unearthly high spirits, renewed at every moment by the sweet nothings Saëtone murmurs to me, and by Désiré (I desire Godard out loud, so I have named him Désiré), who with his imbecile air pays attention to me from afar, and by Girofla, who, head bowed, traces my initials M.B. in the sand in every possible way, then his own, E.A. — but to throw me off the scent he traces O.S., Olga Sapogenikoff. That child is scarlet from the looks the handsome young man throws her.
She thinks he looks at me to throw people off the scent, and I think he looks at her for the same reason. Each of us believes herself the favourite. It is funny.
Nina, sitting behind me, reproaches me for having knocked down Girofla; I refer her to her daughter:
What have you done to him? You have killed him outright, she says to me.
Indeed, what is the matter with him?
And you still ask!
Ah! if only I could believe it!!!!
For I must confess: this man pleases me and occupies my thoughts a great deal. The other day I tried to see whether I could say that I loved him, but no, I do not love him; still, he pleases me and above all occupies me so much that one could be mistaken.
I so ardently, so madly want him to love me that I would give a great deal for it!
But I do not know what is the matter with me this evening: I am mad with joy, with happiness!! And why? Audiffret asks me several times whether I am going to the open-air ball tomorrow for the benefit of the flood victims of the Midi. He hands my aunt an invitation signed by President Danis.
Saëtone, Galula and the dark, brooding hero tell me stories about Danis and say they will introduce him to me tomorrow.
I should like to fly, I am so inspired and so gay — but madly, like a lunatic, and for no reason.
Girofla expresses a wish to walk home, and so do the others. I had the idea first and he said it for me. But my aunt makes us get into the severe landau, and after shaking hands with our escorts we drive off.
For half an hour I laugh, sing and chatter in the dining room; at last I had to go to my room — it was one in the morning.
But at the door I stay ten minutes, unable to stop laughing and talking nonsense. Maman was asleep; I was afraid of waking her.
I am as happy as God’s birds, as happy as the happiest thing in this world; I should like to shout it from the rooftops. If anyone asks me why, I do not know.
My heart beats freely, my eyes shine, my feet do not touch the ground as I walk; I feel free, gay, light.
What does this mad joy bring me, what does it foretell?
in the margin
(People will say I am in love, but nothing of the sort.)

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In French in the original: beau ténébreux — the dark, handsome, melancholy hero of romantic fiction. ↩