Sunday, 8 August 1875

I was at church, then at the exhibition at the Palais de l’Industrie, where we lunched as best we could.
It is fine; I am in white, with a large straw hat, musketeer shape, turned up with a white bow and two feathers.
I came home, leaving Stiopa and his wife there; I am tired — we walked for two hours. They are going to look and admire some more; as for me, I would rather stay at home alone. There are handsome carriages at the exhibition, and I want one.
It will be dull in the Bois; there will be riff-raff. Writing paper with my arms on it has just been brought to me. How long the days are!
I am short of money; I shall have to telegraph my aunt — otherwise I haven’t the means to leave.
crossed outI said that the cards had lied.
I was as unjust in reproaching the cards as Croesus was with the oracle. Croesus and I both misunderstood.
The king I took for Girofla was Smirnoff. Just as the empire Croesus was to destroy was his own and not that of the Persians.
As for the king of spades who was to do me harm, that is Adam. And how obstinately he kept coming up with bad cards!
I am the queen of diamonds; the king of the same suit kept coming up. Now, that may just as well be a fair-haired gentleman as a man in love, since the king of the same suit as the queen means a lover, or a fiancé, or a man one loves. But he may also be someone indifferent. I did not understand the cards well then; Stiopa has taught me, and now I know. That fair king is Smirnoff, that good soul who leaves for Russia this evening. He has been very useful to us, and very convenient.
Above all I am mortified at what my family will say to me. I am ashamed to appear beaten in front of them. My aunt, who told me with a certain satisfied air that I would see Audiffret in Paris, that we would be staying next door, and a thousand other little things which, now that the affair has turned out so badly, are so many vexations to me.
One must never make plans. Spoken like a sage!
For myself it is nothing; it is my family I dread. They will talk to me about the man and I shall be terribly embarrassed. But bah! it is not a misfortune — at most an annoyance.
In the Bois, nothing but riff-raff, as I had said.
At dinner Stiopa and his wife quarrel; I could barely keep from laughing. Very instructive, a conjugal quarrel.
The cards say that Girofla has gone. Much I care — do I see him? Unworthy creature! And yet I cannot help finding him charming.
Above all because he is capricious, violent and hot-tempered. I like wicked men. Goodness is venerable, no doubt, but... But I am a perverse woman; I love only what does not love me, and what is wicked and bad.
I miss Nice; I was so happy there lately. The antics with Girofla, especially before I knew him, amused me like nothing in the world; never have I laughed so much, never was I so lively. Whom shall I choose now?
Unless someone new comes, there will be no one. No — there will be no one so amusing. He has a château, he is from Nice; we went to his house, we saw each other every day, and the glances, and the blushes on both sides, and the drives along the Promenade des Anglais! All that already seems far away — and so sweet, so pleasant!
We went to the theatre, to the baths. And my fits of temper about the introduction!
And our follies with the three Graces!
It was already beginning in the spring, before Spa. I used to go out riding in the mornings with Paul; we would go to the villa that had just been bought, then put our horses to a gallop to get ahead of the handsome Niçois on his way to Gioia’s. Back from Paris, when I was still pale, we began looking at each other and blushing. Then the evenings at the Opera, where I went for that wretch, then at last the mad drives of the spring, and at last we become acquainted.
And Désiré. I did not desire him for long, and I shall keep a fond memory of him. And the country balls, and the walk behind the house! Godard and Olga, Girofla and me. We put out the lanterns, and Girofla composed a telegram to Danis fils, caught at patouchi lamp. And how we laughed!
Patouchi lamp — he said it at every turn, and it had become a sort of password.
Quick, quick, let me reread my journal from the spring before last.
What memories! Has he as many as I?
Look at that! On Sunday, 19 April 1874, I say that I like him very much, young Emile.
Even before that, on 2 March, I say that I would like to know him and that I like him very much. Oh dear — I forget Emile and read about my meeting with Berthe and our conversation about the Duke.
But there it is: on 26 November Girofla blushed like a madman as he passed us.
I must read it all in order; I have only been leafing through.
And our nonsense at Rumpelmayer’s, which I was forgetting. I shall have to reread everything; I have got as far as book fifteen. It is very late.

Notes

Patouchi: in Russian in the original (потуши, “put out!”), so roughly “the put-out lamp”, Girofla’s mock-Russian catchphrase. ↩