Thursday, 9 September 1875

We are in Marseille. My aunt has gone out about those wretched diamonds.
I have an hour to scrub off the grime. Lord, how filthy one gets on a journey.
I feel closer to Nice, to my city — for whatever I say, it is my city. I am so invisible, so lost in Paris. And then, whenever I am in Paris I am without my dresses, so that I am not the most elegant, and that I cannot forgive myself — that I cannot endure.
I am bored and anxious — I shall not be at peace until I reach Florence with all my finery. Never have I been so tormented on account of dresses! By Jove.
I have had my grey dress and felt hat brushed and am waiting for my aunt to go for a turn about the city.
I bought a novel at some station or other, but it was so badly written that, for fear of ruining my already rather poor style, I threw it out the window and returned to Herodotus, which I am about to read this very moment.
Ah, what a splendid outcome!
Poor aunt! I prostrate myself before her — the places she went, the people she saw, and all of it for my sake! She did not dare ask the coachman where the pawnshop was, and instead asked him for the place where they keep diamonds.
We laughed together over the place where they keep diamonds. One cannot pawn anything without a passport, so our few hours’ stop here came to nothing.
At one o’clock we leave this city that smells so dreadful. On arriving, my aunt says to me:
— There is Gioia.
— Where!
— Right there.
I ask no more and rush to the ladies’ saloon. She is there with an old sick woman whom she appears to be nursing, and two maids.
I am all in a flutter and cannot stop looking at her, while she keeps her eyes downcast with great modesty. I no longer admire her.
I was in my travelling dress, grey dress and grey felt hat; she too had a grey dress, a black hat — elegant in general, not too heavily made up, without a stunning ensemble and a hat to flatter any woman, without a magnificent carriage drawn by two black horses: our circumstances were the same. She was more carefully got up than I — and yet I was prettier than she, and nearly as tall. The conclusion of this comparison is that I no longer admire her as before, since I am better than she is. At every moment she had something to send word of to Monsieur.
— Tell Monsieur to telegraph to Nice that my bath be prepared for me.
And Louise would go and tell Monsieur.
My aunt comes in and tells me that Girofla is in the buffet, and I am quite agitated on his behalf — I do not envy his position: to be caught in flagrant transit with this creature.
But it is nothing of the sort — “Monsieur” is not d’Audiffret but some unremarkable gentleman with a rather sheepish look about him; besides, that journey alone could stupefy anyone, and then these gentlemen always wear a half-witted expression around such ladies.
Near Cannes begin the stifled sighs and reminiscences of the Giroflian era. I look back on [Nice] as I look back on d’Audiffret: with pleasure and vexation.
From Antibes onward I sing myself hoarse with Niçois songs to the great astonishment of the station employees — the closer we got, the more my impatience grew. And must I say it? Yes, mustn’t I? Well, I am sad to see all this again. For the moment my whole life in Nice has given way to my life of these past months. Let no one look for anything deep in what I say, nothing sentimental, above all nothing seriously Giroflian — lightly, yes: like a perfume, like a snatch of music, like a sketch of a landscape one has seen.
Nothing has been done in my rooms. My aunt ordered the work to be done and my dear uncle Georges countermanded it, for what reason I don’t know. Everywhere and always this man in my path! And so he is the first of my enemies, and the one who has done me the most harm.
The house is empty, in disorder, nothing is arranged, everything is in a pitiful state.
Before going home we called at Nina’s; she lodges on the Promenade des Anglais, no. 7, second floor.
They have time to tell us that all the furniture in the château has been sold, that there is not a chair, not even a bed, and that he will go to a hotel if he comes back. This momentous news reached them through the ex-coachman of the lord of the manor — or should I say of the ex-lord of the manor?
Why did I leave Nice? What did I go there for? To what end? Neither pleasure nor profit.
When I left I said that the pleasure I would give my mother would stand in for usefulness — well, no: I am sorry to have travelled for nothing.
There it is, that Mediterranean I was sighing for, those black trees, and just now there is moonlight lighting up that path across the sea. Perfect calm: no rumbling of carriages, none of the perpetual movement and bustle of those people who, from my window at the Grand Hôtel, looked to me like little toy men to play with. Calm, silence, a darkness dimly lit by the moon as it hides, and barely broken by the few lanterns of the Promenade running one after another. I go into my room, into my dressing room, I open the window to see the château, always the same, large and motionless; at that very moment some hour was striking — I no longer know which — and my heart did not tighten, nor did it leap either; it shifted slightly at the sound of Girofla’s clock. It seemed to me that I had never gone away, that tomorrow I would have my teachers, whose lessons would make me impatient, almost absent-minded, that the time until five in the evening would seem endless. At five we shall go bathing; in the evening people will come to us.
Saëtone, Fiouloulou, Désiré, etc., and above all the surprising but stupid hero.
Once again I shall set about chasing my conquest, and once again the evening will end without bringing anything, and I shall go back to my room almost disappointed, and go and read in my dressing room, and go to bed hoping for a morrow like the day just ended.
I shall go over in my head everything that was said, and fall asleep impatient at the slowness of the dénouement — the dénouement that was never to come.
crossed outWell, you understand.
Everything has fallen through for me this year, from the least important thing — d’Audiffret — to the most serious and most important — the arranging of the house. Whatever lies between that minimum and this maximum has fallen through just the same.
Ah! I may well name this year the year of sighs, with the exception however, not the whole year, but my journeys are journeys of sighs. Everything was going well, I was even enjoying myself, until the journeys — no, until the departure of his tinpot excellency. See how a gnat can bite a lion.
Fritz and Bagatelle met me at the door; Fritz threw himself into my arms and is so happy to see me again that it is a marvel in a dog I have had for barely four months.
So here I am in Nice. It is strange. Ah! there I go sighing again. Good night, I am a little tired.
Oh! I love Nice, I love Nice!
What I cannot forgive myself is talking about a man who doesn’t give a fig for me! It is unworthy to lower oneself so. Ah! if he read this, how proud he would be; he would think I am hiding the truth, that I am madly in love but disguise it under studied phrases. He would be mistaken — besides, being mistaken is easy.
I am vexed, yes; piqued, yes. Well, let us leave that; I have talked and above all thought about it so much that I no longer know what to say or how to make myself understood.
Besides, haven’t I said that my ideas change twenty times a day? Often I sit down to my journal to write one thing, and halfway through I already think otherwise. That is how it is with d’Audiffret and everything concerning him; as for other things, I am very sure of my ideas.
Well, good night, good night, my dear journal; I should never be done drivelling here in Nice, like those old men who recount the adventures of their youth.

Notes

In French in the original: Bigre. ↩
In French in the original: Mont de Piété — the municipal pawnshop. ↩
In French in the original: l’ex-cocher du châtelain, dois-je dire de l’ex-châtelain ? — châtelain: the owner of a château, here the château opposite the villa (Audiffret’s; cf. “Girofla’s clock” below). ↩