Friday, 23 July 1875

My aunt, who was at Monaco yesterday with Nina, tells me that this lady, having gone there to dine, began, as is her charming habit, to chat with the servants. And that the manservant told her a great many things about Girofla. He said what I think of him and what I wrote yesterday in this very journal.
That Girofla was a demon of perfidy. That is no news to me; I had guessed it long before I knew him, this hero of so much gossip.
I dislike hearing him given such a reputation. He aims at Don Juanery, and to punish him I should like no one to notice it.
That charming Nina, with the best intentions in the world, is in a way putting my aunt on her guard. How stupid they are! I pity all these people.
Am I not above the Audiffrets and his like? Fortunately or unfortunately, I think myself such a treasure that no one in my eyes is worthy of it, and those who dare to raise their eyes to it I regard as wretched little worms, scarcely worthy of pity. I think myself a divinity, and cannot conceive that a man like Girofla could seriously dare to have designs.
I could scarcely treat a king as my equal. I believe that is quite right. I look down on men from such a height that I am charming to them, for it is not seemly to despise those who are so low. I look on them with benevolence, so puny do they seem to me — I look on them as a lion would look on a mouse.
Instead of going out I paint — a history painting. On an azure-blue background, with clouds: Godard dressed in blue (as is his custom), collar and cuffs of dazzling white, red cravat, red-and-white stockings, holding a rose in one hand and a bow and arrow in the other; he stands on one foot. He has a quiver and two little pink wings.
He is such a good likeness that I laugh as I put him together. Exactly that frightened air and that prominent rump, which he wags the way the tails of the monsters around Neptune wag. In the left-hand corner is the head of Saëtone, red, ginger-haired, with pink and russet wings and his monocle. That one is recognisable by the colour and the attributes, but the face has not come off. On the left is Fiouloulou, a likeness to make one shriek, with bat’s wings, a monocle dangling in the air and a pen behind his ear. That one is so perfect that on seeing it the Sapogenikoffs cried out that it is not a caricature but real talent, that it is superb.
At the bottom on the right is a tower, from whose battlements emerges a butterfly of a thousand colours with a man’s head seen from behind, topped by four snail’s horns. On the tower there is a large white heart with this inscription: Tower, beware! Out from under the tower come two feet and a black tail. At the bottom on the left there is a prickly pear, like the one we stole from Gioia, from behind which a profile emerges — I meant it to be Danis’s, but there is almost no likeness.
Having finished this glorious picture I go to dine at the pavilion, for the first time since 8 July. Joking aside, this caricature is charming. Désiré and Galula are perfect, and Saëtone passable. It will be an amusing souvenir for me.
It is Olga’s name day; I make my Graces drink, and drink a fair amount myself. We talk pleasantly and I am content.
In exasperation I ask the moon to show me the man who will be my husband.

Notes

In French in the original: La tour, prends garde ! — a traditional French children’s round-game song. ↩