Sunday, 24 October 1875

Editors’ note
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We go to collect my Graces to go to church together; just before their house, the Surprising One overtakes us and raises his head with studied affectation before the Sapogenikoff windows.
But as I decided yesterday to concern myself with him no more, I neither blush nor say a word.
I am perfectly natural and tease Olga, who is flushed and in an elevated state. I hand her Bibi just as I might hand her anyone, and she is delighted.
I am not cross with myself — I said something foolish by way of a talisman, this talisman has had no success, and so be it: I refuse to fret over it. The main thing, the thing I fear most, is general contempt. In a pinch I shall be content with mere politeness, provided no one turns away — and then I am at peace.
Giroflé is radiant; we marry her to Girofla and each person composes a future scene of their married life. Much imagination is deployed and everyone laughs at everyone else’s stories. It is a pastime — an amusement, I mean — very much in use among us.
Antonoff — you do not know what Antonoff is; he is a rather curious individual who tells his own story himself. He was a wretched clerk in some Petersburg shop when he realised it was stupid to moulder in such lowly depths. Having realised as much, he found himself a dowry that came with an excessively ugly wife and became a merchant on his own account. As a dry goods merchant he amassed a great fortune — six hundred thousand roubles, they say; then he abandoned his wife with a cash settlement, wound up his business, sold his firm, and came with an actress, a singer, to Nice — that complaisant receptacle of all things, of the rose petal as of the laurel leaf.
The actress, Mme Kronneberg, passed as his wife. Having a pretty voice, she sang at the Opera with success — success obtained above all on account of her position, a Russian lady, quasi-amateur, and so forth. Through the Opera, Bibi-Antonoff came to know the notables of Nice, viz: Saëtone, d’Audiffret father and son, etc.
One fine day Mme Kronneberg dumps him flat; Bibi-Antonoff makes the best of a bad situation, buys a plot of land on the Route de Villefranche and builds himself a house. He is very oddly dressed, with those diamond buttons. Short, dark, looking round, with fish eyes; aged forty-five but appearing at most thirty. Speaks only Russian, no education whatsoever. Wit? The practical kind, the speculative kind, the money kind — the wit of a parvenu.
Truly, he is not worth this description — but then he has called on Nina, and then on us, and is to give a party at his house in a week for the housewarming. We make fun of him, and each person has something witty to say at his expense. He has been a widower for two years and aspires to take another companion. Marie appeals to him; we laugh about it quite enough, thank God.
It is warm; I go out to the Promenade on foot with Giroflé. We scrupulously examine the gardens of Gioia and Rosalie Léon through the railings.
Allow me to return to the subject. You permit it. Very well — it is to say that if Bibi is thinking of Olga seriously, I prefer this to anything else. At least I have the object within reach. A paltry compensation.
I have found my inner self again; it is as calm as can be and looks upon my outward surface with a shrug of its shoulders.
Maman and my aunt take a cab and leave the landau for us.
Dina, myself, Marie and Olga. I am in white and pretty, summer hat.
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It is only when we return to the concert after a turn on the Promenade that M. Emile d’Audiffret approaches — deigns to approach — accompanied by the faithful Fiouloulou. Did I mention that Chevalier and Fiouloulou were the only ones to have paid calls? And observe: the two worst of the lot.
He even deigns to say what a pretty carriage, that it is a real bouquet of flowers, and so forth.
“That is precisely what I was saying just now,” I say.
“You see!” he said, with conviction.
I behave like an angel — no blushing, no confusion. Not that I have anything to boast of: I do not owe this calm to my character, for if I were moved or flustered I should not know how to contain myself. So I behaved well because I felt nothing out of the ordinary.
Bibi has all sorts of things on his skin; I find it unpleasant. After a few grimaces with Giroflé, he turns towards us. I am simple and amiable, just as with everyone else. If he was counting on making an effect, this must vex him.
I try to get my portrait back by means of a ruse my aunt suggested.
“I have received my new photographs, and I shall give you a very pretty one, and you will give me back the other, which is ugly — no, truly, give it back to me, I do not want such horrid photographs going about — I shall give you a very pretty one.”
“Not in the least,” replied Monsieur with his insolent air, “the other one is very fine.”
“No, it is ugly.”
“It is very pretty — and if you knew how nicely it is set out now!..”
“Bah!”
“With little contraptions, climbing plants.”
“I know perfectly well why you will not give it back: it is because you no longer have it.”
Whereupon Monsieur has the honour of taking his leave of us.
We longed to have him at our house this evening, but the mammas were not at home, and besides, the Surprising One informed us of his intention to go and see La Tour de Nesle.
I believe he thinks a formal call unnecessary — just as last time, when we came back from Florence, he simply came round in the evening.
The devil take him! If you knew how happy I am to be indifferent. I behaved, I repeat, like an angel, just as though nothing were the matter, as though it were not the Surprising One but Godard or Fiouloulou or anybody at all.
After dinner Giroflé and I, wrapped in a single cloak, slip quietly out and go and ring the bells at Gioia’s and at Wittgenstein’s, then cross the road and stroll about as calmly as you please.
At the door we meet Dina and Marie in costume — Dina as a cabman, Marie as a jockey, a street urchin, heaven knows what.
Fired with noble ardour, we go upstairs and disguise ourselves as they have, and thus got up we enter the dining room, where Bihovetz, Ricardo, Nina, Coco, Daniloff and the household are gathered.
But we had agreed on something else as well: after five minutes we go out, walking arm in arm down the middle of the Promenade and singing the conspirators’ chorus, which is almost the national song of the people of Nice — and in impossible voices. Little by little we grow bolder and go onto the Promenade proper, but there two gentlemen suspect what we really are, start whistling and stare at us. Fear seized me; fortunately the hat pulled down over my eyes kept my face from being seen. And quickly we go home, but by the back lane and the Rue de France, to throw our two men off the scent. Giroflé and I get back without mishap, but Dina rolls in the dust and Marie on top of Dina.
The landau is at the door; we get in and go for a drive past the Café de la Victoire and the Théâtre Français. It is just the interval, and people look at us a great deal — but more on account of the landau than for anything else.
At last, as it was getting on for half past ten, we came home. All our visitors are still there; they make me sing songs of Thérésa’s. Ricardo is enchanted.
We laugh like mad; boys’ clothes allow us to be perfect urchins. And then Ricardo and Bihovetz are thoroughly proper, and one feels safe with them.
After the singing comes the dancing, without music. Carried away by the example, everyone gets up — even Mme Daniloff, even Bihovetz, Walitsky, Barnola, Nina, everyone, everyone, just as in Giroflé-Girofla; we are out of breath and cannot stop. Barnola, bounding all the while, puts on a woman’s hat and plays the bashful one from behind a curtain, with his dark bearded face!
This goes on for quite some time; we part dancing and bounding — with some difficulty in shaking hands, since as one rises the other sinks, like ocean waves.
The madness had seized everyone — it was adorable. And when we are left on our own, we speak of the Surprising One. They say he pleases me, and I say no — but that I always need someone, and that honestly he alone here can call himself a man.

Notes

La Tour de Nesle (literally The Tower of Nesle) — the Romantic melodrama by Alexandre Dumas père (1832). ↩
Thérésa (Emma Valladon, 1836/37–1913) was the first great star of the Paris café-concert, famous from the 1860s at the Alcazar for comic and popular songs (Wikipedia, “Thérésa (singer)”). ↩
Giroflé-Girofla: opéra bouffe by Charles Lecocq, libretto by Albert Vanloo and Eugène Leterrier (Brussels and Paris, 1874), about twin brides, one of whom is carried off by pirates. Marie’s circle took nicknames from it: “Girofla” is Émile d’Audiffret, “Giroflé” Olga Sapogenikoff. ↩