Saturday, 17 July 1875

Let clever people not believe in cards and dreams — I, who am only a simple creature, believe in them.
Did the cards not tell me last Thursday morning that I would receive a great vexation from a departure? And two days before the abominable death of Mops, that an old man would cause me great grief?
And last Wednesday I dreamed of three naked women, which signifies affront and troubles.
[Annotation, 1877: There was no affront — by fearing it, I forestalled it.]
Last night's dream cannot count as an answer to my invocation, for I dreamed again of the surprising but stupid Émile d'Audiffret. He is not the one I shall marry in my lifetime — and besides, I see him in dreams every night; it cannot count. I was running in a garden with him running after me, but just as I said to myself "At last — he is coming!" he stopped short, as if to show his contempt for me.
Then I had to go find Marie under a tree; I took her arm and we ran again. But he treated me more than cavalierly. A fine dream.
This morning I saw Sabatini; she dreamed I had dark eyes so luminous that they blinded her, and a third, very tiny one in the middle of my forehead — but so beautiful, she says, that far from being a monstrosity, it enhanced my looks remarkably.
An extraordinary dream, and of happy omen. I am bored by having no purpose, and my greatest diversion is writing. It seems to me I could spend my days scribbling.
My aunt calls me a good-for-nothing, because I let my Girofla go, as she puts it. As if I could have kept him. I cannot say how much I prize the conquest of him precisely because of the difficulty: the scythe meets the stone, as they say in Russia.
In the middle of the day I open my box.
What a rage to write — if only I wrote well. I am more bored than I have ever been. Nothing of interest!
I have nothing to think about; before, I used to wait for the hour of the promenade, or for the evening — now I wait for nothing, and it is sad.
Before I knew the man in question, I bore his absences from the Promenade for a fortnight and more without any impatience. But now he has accustomed me to his presence. And no one to replace him — not a single decent creature!
Why did he have himself introduced if I do not please him? And why, since the introduction, never leave our side?
There are plenty of houses even in summer where one may go. Why come to ours? Why lead me to hope for a quantity of foolish things through all manner of signs?
I am Pallas herself in doubting everything and believing only at the last moment. I should have been even more disappointed if I had been foolish enough to believe what everyone was telling me.
Admit it — it is mortifying. "One should never make plans; it is useless" — what a wise man! Well, I make plans. Who does not?
I had imagined it all so beautifully!
I imagined it in such a way as not to regret a summer in Nice. Truly, he is an unworthy creature. One must believe I am ugly and stupid. What! Not to have been able to catch even him!
Catch him! Easy to say. What can a girl do? If I were a married woman, it would have been another matter. A married woman has every means at her disposal; a girl has none. A girl must hold herself quietly and can do nothing. The least show of amorous attention and they think her eager to marry — ugh!
A girl can only catch those who want to be caught; a married woman can do anything. [Crossed out: as long as she] I speak of a pretty woman, a woman of wit. One need not even be pretty — the thing is to have the vocation.
And to want to conquer the world at sixteen — what an idea! Yesterday the weather was fine and cool; today a great wind. [Annotation, 23 August: What an idea to call Girofla the world!] [One line cancelled: He keeps me busy with painting]
I am reading the Mémoires of Mademoiselle. So far it is not gripping. How blessed were those women, to have lived in an age that made them illustrious. In ours, one is stoned for everything.
It is quite settled then: one must marry and, like Agis, carry out a revolution and restore the ancient customs.
The Russian will most likely be married by next year.
Besides, I am not sorry to be avoiding him involuntarily.
Let things take their course when we can do nothing else.
I am happy to remain at home all day with my two Graces, and likewise in the evening. Barely dressed — as the Graces ought to be — we read Dumas and smoke cigarettes, not at all as the Graces ought to be. Someone recalls the escapade at the château, the one who lifted her black veil as if to take a photograph, as Girofla told it. I listen and silently recall everything we said with him, his glances, everything — and cannot help confessing to myself that my conduct was absurd. I ought to have taken him on a tone of coquetry and raillery, not on a tone of seriousness and tenderness.
I ought to have laughed in his face and deployed a dazzling coquetry — not stood waiting for a serious declaration.
I am nothing but a fool. All is not over, I hope — and I shall do otherwise in future. The truth is, I believed he loved me.
Even now, certain glances I have caught make me think so in spite of everything. One does not look at someone as he looked at me for no reason.
On the last evening, while he was leaning on the piano, I took the score of Mignon and went towards Saëtone, singing: "Tomorrow, you say — who knows where we shall be tomorrow? The future is God's; time is in His hand."
He fixed on me such a piercing gaze that I could not help wondering what particular meaning might attach itself to those words.
And then the compliments he paid me — always in a low voice, timidly, as if even he were hiding from himself, afraid of being overheard even by me.
With Olga it is quite different — he simply tells her he would like to kiss her, and all manner of things in that style. With me, never a word that could wound the most prudish, the most severe of creatures — except the matter of the angel's kiss, but one could not take offence at that, and it was sufficient to do as I did.
I am deeply disappointed by this departure. If he loved me he would not leave.
One leaves when one is in love — but only when there are obstacles, as in novels, or when one has been repulsed and driven to despair. He was neither.
[Annotation, 1877: In fact, he was repulsed.]
He amused himself exactly as I wished to amuse myself.
I cannot calmly place this idea in my head. Marie reads Twenty Years After and I lie half-reclined on the sofa, my feet bare, with nothing but a simple white woollen dress for my entire ensemble. With this garment and my bare feet I look like a woman from the Bible.
I am tired and languid — not ill, but as I was at Spa, God preserve me! I am rosy and fresh but the whole affair has stunned me. I am entirely happy to be able to do nothing.
Twice I have seen Girofla in a dream, instead of him whom I shall marry in my lifetime.
After putting out the lights, I open the shutters and, looking up at the moon that will not listen to me, I say the necessary words.

Notes

Russian proverb: La faux rencontre la pierre — the scythe meets the stone; when two equally obstinate forces clash, neither yields. In Russian in the original.
Pallas Athena, goddess of wisdom — Marie compares herself to the prudent deity, priding herself on her scepticism.
Anne Marie Louise d'Orléans, Duchess of Montpensier (1627–1693), known as "la Grande Mademoiselle" — a leading figure of the Fronde. Her memoirs were widely read.
Agis IV, king of Sparta (244–241 BC), who attempted sweeping social and economic reforms to return Sparta to its original austere institutions.
Mes Grâces — Marie's nickname for her circle of companions, after the Three Graces of mythology.
Mignon, opera by Ambroise Thomas (1866), enormously popular in the 1870s.
Vingt ans après — Alexandre Dumas's 1845 sequel to The Three Musketeers.