Saturday, 4 September 1875

Now there’s an adventure!
Coming out from lunch I am accosted by an American, a rather old one, who stares at me since the first day. At first I did not know what he wanted and answered him politely, but then I see that he simply wants to make my acquaintance. The impudent fellow asks permission to call on us.
I tell him that I cannot give it, not having the pleasure of knowing him; then he asks me for the name of someone who knows me, to introduce him. I answer that I know no one. Then he says he is very well known at the hotel, and I tell him I am very sorry but I cannot.
This dialogue takes place in English; my aunt is beside me and understands nothing, or very little. One has to be an American to commit such an impropriety. I go up to my room all aflame with anger.
That is not all. A moment before this singular conversation I was standing on the balcony of the reading room, waiting for my aunt, when I heard behind me a chorus of admiration for my person, my figure. The chorus came from a group of gentlemen seated behind me. It is true that in my grey batiste dress, perfectly plain, I have a divine figure — divine is the word — and my golden-chestnut hair is simply dressed, rolled up I don’t know how, but the twists fall to the middle of my back.
That is not all. Besides these people there are the Brazilians, who look at me and follow me.
That is not all: there is a charming young fair-haired Englishman who seems to be sighing; that is not all: there is a hideous fair-haired man, a Russian I think, who pursues me. That is not all... Ah, yes! This time I think that is all. There are certainly other madmen too, but I shall not take the trouble to speak of them. I am so much looked at here that one cannot tell all the lookers apart.
Even the women look at me and admire my toilettes, astonishingly simple and surprisingly chic.
Even Vigier, that old imbecile, stares at my feet. There’s one for you! They bring round a two-horse victoria for us and we drive out. Caroline is an angel!
The festivities in Florence will take place on the 13th, 14th and 15th. I have just enough time, thank God.
Then we go to the Bois. The same dress, a black felt hat. There are a great many people, it is amusing, and for the first time in Paris I do not have rings under my eyes and am not half asleep.
Editors’ note
[Three lines crossed out]
Gonzales father and son are on foot; we exchange greetings. In their carriage are the ladies, whom I do not greet.
Then, in the midst of countless carriages, I see Lucie’s most amiable greeting. One is disarmed by her good-natured air; besides, I have no reason to bear her a grudge, except the universal reason for which I bear a grudge against everyone.
There are four rows of carriages, one is almost crushed. I was busy marvelling at the ugliness of the men here when I see something familiar approaching. I was trying to recognise it — for there are so many people, so many faces, that the eyes weaken and grow dazed, morally speaking — I was trying, then, to recognise it, when, as the person bowed to me, I saw the smile of the astonishing but stupid Emile d’Audiffret blossom.
I blushed only when his carriage had been replaced by other carriages following one another endlessly. From that moment my aunt and I are as if set free; our eyes light up, our faces brighten.
We talk; we even smile.
A transformation scene. Everything clears up for me — I may well say for us. My aunt, who at every drive reproached me with the expense of the carriage, says not a word of it, but on the contrary finds that there are a great many people, that this is the first time it has been like this. Our faces have great difficulty holding back a certain smile of satisfaction that breaks through in spite of everything.
Everything changes for me. I had been hesitating about my dresses, my hats; in an instant everything is decided. On our second circuit the astonishing but stupid personage comes up to the carriage and, in that shrill voice he inherited from his father, with his Niçois accent, flings out these words, blazing with distinction:
Where are you staying, then?
At the Grand Hotel, my aunt answers.
Splendid!
As for me, I do not even turn my head his way. We move on, and I keep up my archduchess manner.
I do not know to what to attribute this inner revolution, but the fact is that, just as everything seemed black to me before, everything seems rosy to me now.
Let us thank the man from Nice. But he is ugly, and more and more I am reassured, and more and more I am content.
It is a pity, though, that he lacks that certain something which is wholly pleasing.
We get back just in time for the table d’hôte. I am uneasy on account of my American. To the left are the ones I call Brazilians, but far from us; to the right, in the reading room, is the nice Englishman, who, to get a look, goes up twenty times to the menu pasted on the window — but each time I saw his right eye peep past the notice and fix itself on me.
Oh, really, I am not worth such trouble. My aunt goes out and I go back to my room, undress and begin to write. Suddenly there is a knock; the chambermaid hands me a card. I have barely glanced at the card when I see the name Moreno.
Show him in.
It is dark in the other room; only mine is lit.
Is that you, Monsieur? I say through the door, convinced that I am about to hear the honeyed voice of my old friend.
Yes, says a deep voice, it is I.
Who — you! By Jove! I say to myself. So I shall have to make a scene and throw him out — and yet I thought he would not try again after this morning.
Me, me — the son! the voice says at last, in a reassuring tone, no doubt because of my frightened accent.
Ah, good! I say, breathing again. — Wait for me, I am coming at once.
I slip on a dress without corset or petticoats, but with my divine body that is almost unnecessary.
The son is alone; all the same, he gave me a fright that set me trembling.
I look at his hat on the table, at his black hair, and a bright idea strikes me.
Sit like this — turn your back to the door and don’t turn round when my aunt comes in. I want her to take you for someone else.
And all the while our conversation is interrupted by my bursts of laughter; I am picturing my aunt’s face.
Rémy assures me that he has not changed in four years.
How many young ladies have you been in love with since?
Not a single one, I swear!
I doubt; he insists; I laugh; he sighs. I am delighted to have got the boy back. It is pleasant to have childhood friendships. Back then he was a hundred times better at coquetry than I; now I am an old woman and he is a child.
He begs me to be his Ariadne in the labyrinth of life. I consent, and make him give his word to come and find me wherever I may be in two and a half years, when he has finished his studies and is free.
He ventures to ask whether I have changed.
Not at all, I am still the same. I am not in love with you, that goes without saying... — I meant to add: and I never was. But why disillusion people? He makes signs with his head and stammers something that means:
Oh, no doubt not — I dare not believe otherwise.
But, I went on, I am your friend. We are old friends, and it would be sacrilege to neglect a relationship like ours.
Editors’ note
[One line crossed out]
My aunt comes in, and I burst out laughing at the sight of her face — surprised, smiling and at the same time severe.
She had put on a face suited to the occasion, but Rémy turns round and in an instant her face changes.
Ah! ha! ha! Aunt, I am delighted with the surprise.
Not at all — I did not think what you suppose; I should never have believed you would receive this person here.
Oh! Oh! Then why did you guess?
Madame, she laughed at this prank the whole time; one could not get a word in.
I should think I laughed — there was reason enough!
At last I calm down and, with a perfectly innocent air, ask for news of the theatres — whether I can see Le Procès Veauradieux. He answers no.
What a pity — they say it is very amusing. Tell me, what is on at the Variétés?
La Guigne is on, but soon they will be giving La Vie Parisienne.
Is it good?
Oh, delightful — one dies laughing.
You have seen it — then tell me about it.
And he tells me the story of La Vie Parisienne, which I have seen ten times.
It is eleven o’clock, and my page departs, charged with finding me a horse.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
In French in the original: Bigre ! ↩
Le Procès Veauradieux (“The Veauradieux Lawsuit”): comedy by Alfred Hennequin and Alfred Delacour (Vaudeville, 1875). The French title is kept; no established English title. ↩
La Guigne (“Bad Luck”): the comedy then playing at the Variétés. The French title is kept; no established English title. ↩
La Vie Parisienne (“Parisian Life”): operetta by Jacques Offenbach (1866), known in English by its French title. ↩