Friday, 10 September 1875

The mosquitoes woke me ten times in the night. I get up a little pale but strong and at ease.
Ah! the English know well what they mean by home. Whatever it may be, one's house is the most agreeable place there is. It has nothing to do with comfortable or with wealth — for look at our house: everything upside down, barely the necessary furniture, disorder, desolation — and yet I am content there, I am at home. For it is mine, mine, mine!
I even forget my anxieties — my dresses seem fine. O Nice! I never thought I would see her again with such rapture. And if anyone had heard me cursing and damning her since Marseille, they would say I detest her: it is my habit to speak ill of the people and things I love.
All in white and wrapped in a long white tulle veil, I go to the Promenade with my two dogs. I am so disgusted with men that only dogs will do. I have just received a letter from Foster — he has sent me an Aunt Sally set and bows and arrows — Archery — it is fashionable in England — but our accounts are settled.
And I was not expecting this letter. Here it is, pinned in:
Do you know, it is a great deal, for an Englishman, what he says there. I have not seen him for a long time. He came to Nice for
eight days — but those very eight days I was in Paris. What does this man from beyond the seas matter to me! I am talking nonsense. Were he
Vine Cottage
Rochampton Vale, S W
Sept 3. 1875
My dear Mlle de Bachkirseve
I trust the packages I sent to you from London arrived safely at Nice and arrow that you have the archery sets that you will become a famous markswoman making as many bull eyes with your arrows as you do with yours [torn corner], I have been at some my little trouble in sending you Victor the Archery sets and Aunt Sally whose pipe I trust you will be able to smash, and in repayment of my trouble I hope you will send me your photograph. With kind regards to yourself and ciobele and my love to Victor.
Very sincerely yours
A. Foster
beyond the hells themselves, it would still mean something to me. I am so vain, so hungry for any conquest at all.
I believe I said I had gone out — yes, that is it. The weather is grey and beautiful. I have the feeling that every peasant here recognizes me; I want to speak to all these people. I meet no one — passing the Georges baths I stop to speak with old Mme Georges.
She begs me to come and bathe, so as to bring her customers.
Last year on returning to Nice I took the very same walk, exactly the same as this morning. A year ago! A day! A minute! God, how time passes. This walk is like the finale of the year gone by and the beginning of the year to come, which will pass just as quickly, so quickly. I walk in silence, white as a shadow, gathering my memories scattered all along the Promenade. For me, Nice is the Promenade des Anglais. Every house, every tree, every telegraph post is a memory — good or bad, amorous or commonplace.
Now, one must not go reading the handsome Niçois into every word. Certainly he is there — but the other memories dominate. I feel as though I am returning from Spa, Ostend, London — everything is as it was then. There is even in the house that smell of wood peculiar to new furniture.
I want to see Saetone and company. His
card was left — he came two hours after my aunt departed for Paris. There is an error to correct: d'Audiffret — what if I stripped him of his particle? What do you say? I am tempted — plain "Audiffret" is more contemptuous. Well then: Audiffret did not come to call on my aunt as she had written; rather, he spoke to her at the concert, then they went to Monaco, and the following day at six o'clock he left for Paris.
I had the oil caricatures brought down and am going to try to do Audiffret — the trouble is he is handsome, and it is difficult to capture a likeness and make it ridiculous at the same time.
Ah! really, I would do much better to leave him to the devil. I am so prodigiously pathetic when I speak of him.
I go out with my aunt, wishing with all my might to run into those gentlemen — my Niçois.
I would see them with tenderness. On the Quai Masséna, Galula removes and shakes his hat triumphantly.
I go to my Graces, bring them with me, we dine — Papa exasperates me. I go up to my room, do my hair in a delicious Empire coiffure, and put on my white dress — the portrait dress. It is a great white dress like the statues, the sleeves with wide turned-back cuffs I fold above the elbows, low-cut at the front in a gentle curve and slightly at the back so as to reveal the base of the neck, with a broad falling flounce of Valenciennes lace. The flowing garment is drawn in at the waist by a ribbon, and also below the bosom by two ribbons sewn under each breast and tied in a simple bow at the front. No gloves, no jewels. I am enchanted with myself.
My bosom high and marvellously white, free under this white wool; my white arms. Oh! but white — my small, fine hands! I am fresh, I am animated.
Oh! am I really in Nice? Is it possible! I cannot get over it. We go to the Français, with my Graces, elegant and charming. Truly! It is one of the great satisfactions of my life. To be myself as I love to be — in a beautiful stage box at ground level with my two Graces prettily dressed, in Nice, in my theatre. Everything here is mine!
We have barely entered when Fiouloulou rushes into the box and stays as long as possible.
It seems that several Niçois who do not know me but whom I know have told him they have seen me at the Bois — among others Hector. Hector has told everyone that I asked him where one buys the finest parasols. He tells it to everyone and this
bores me.
— It gives me a poor impression of his wit, I say — he could find nothing more clever to report!
Take that, O Hector! I revel, I breathe, I admire myself in the mirror of the box. People look at me — I look at no one.
Then Saetone arrives like a bombshell.
— But I had no idea, he exclaims — it is like a thunderclap!
— How is it you only come now — we have been in the box for an hour! Oh! Monsieur Saetone, I refuse to look at you! And I hide behind my fan.
— But Mademoiselle — ah! at least tell me, tell me one thing: you are staying?
— No!
— Ah! he says, lamenting.
I talk, I chatter, I am delighted by everything and everyone — everything enchants me.
At last someone asks if I have seen Girofla.
— Yes.
— And what is he doing?
— I believe he is enjoying himself.
— But you saw him?
— Yes, at the Bois.
— You saw him — a great deal of him? — and saying this, Mercury looks me straight in the eyes.
— Why, no, I say, meeting his gaze with wide, innocent eyes — we saw him at the Bois.
— Ah!
— You know, my uncle continues, he is to come here — I received a telegram from him — on Monday he will be here. Here, I believe I have the telegram with me. I shall show it — it will be a sweet satisfaction for Girofla, he says, turning wisely towards Olga.
— How intimately you live with him, I say — he keeps you informed of his every movement.
— Why yes, my God, for some years now we have lived like that — friendship, friendship — but here is the telegram, and after pretending to search for it, he shows me the blue paper.
— Give it to me, I say.
— Monday I arrive in Nice. Regards, ever yours. Audiffret.
— Good.
Then you are leaving, says Mercury, as though after the
telegram something had changed.
— Why yes, Monsieur — tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow — yes indeed!
— But you will return?
— Yes.
— And tell me, in how long do you return — seriously. The maximum, but the truth!
— The maximum is seven days.
— Ah! he says, as if to say: well and good then — now I know where I stand.
Dear Mercury.
Truly I do not know what to think. He was not to return to Nice for a fortnight, and here he is arriving in two days.
I am beside myself with joy at being back in my dear city! I am at home, at home, at home! There is nothing to compare to it. If those around me had neither wit nor vivacity, I feel I would furnish them with some tonight — I have enough for everyone.
I am not afraid, as I am in Paris, of being looked at by coarse men. I am a queen within myself.
— It is a steeple-chase, my aunt, I say when Saetone has gone.
I say it not because I believe it, but to boast.
Besides, tonight I would willingly believe anything. Ah, my God — is it really true? Am I in Nice?
O Nice, ungrateful! I who love you so much! Why does society mistreat me!
I see again the two cupids, Enoteas and Fiouloulou, with tenderness, with joy. Never, it seems to me, have I felt so well.
I leave the theatre free, happy — I do not hide as I do in Paris, I am afraid of nothing, people know me here.
What would I say, if I could speak of Paris as I speak of Nice! That would be too much to hope for. But come — let us go home.

Notes

Both "home" and "comfortable" are in English in the original.
Both "Aunt Sally" and "Archery" are in English in the original.
Foster's letter is in English in the original.
"Steeple-chase" is in English in the original.