Saturday, 30 October 1875

I do not go out; the day passes like an hour — I am not living, I am waiting for Sunday evening, and I fear it will not succeed, for I feel too happy. I smile at every jest. Marie, my mother’s chambermaid — that droll woman who detests her husband — comes to tell me:
“Oh! Mademoiselle — I saw Émile yesterday; he was so proud of dancing with you, he had the look of a rooster.”
“Aha! So you saw him.”
“He loves you, Mademoiselle — and you are going to love him.”
“Tell me, Marie — why is it that whenever a young man calls at a house where there is a young girl, people always invent nonsense?”
“Not everyone does — but you are beautiful and Émile is handsome — and naturally...”
This woman was in the convent to which Mme d’Audiffret had retired after the affair; she saw Émile there — as she calls him — who came several times to try to bring his step-mother to a reconciliation.
She moved me to tenderness, telling me how beautiful Mme d’Audiffret was — white, pink, with large dark eyes, with superb hair so long “that she sat on it” — how she passed her days playing the guitar and singing to put her baby to sleep, and weeping. That every Sunday she received communion with her hair unbound, covered in a long black veil, and that on that day she never stopped weeping.
Is that not romantic?
“You were pretty yesterday,” my aunt tells me. “You were not pale” — (if she says so one must believe it, for at the least pallor I am scolded, as if it were my fault!) — “you were rosy; I don’t always say so, but yesterday you were very pretty, and he was melting.”
“You are telling me this nonsense — from the very first day you assured me he was in love with me!”
“No — but yesterday he looked so intently, and, as is my habit, I caught him at it.”
“If you were telling the truth, I would kiss you four hundred and forty-eight times — it would make me so happy!”
I was preparing to sleep when my Graces arrive disguised as men. At once Dina and I do the same, and we go out having smoked, sworn, said shocking things — everything of the most street-urchin, most disreputable kind.
There are many passers-by this evening but no one pays attention to four little Niçois strolling down the middle of the street. We arrive at Nina’s, drink and smoke with unworthy gestures, dance impossible steps, and sitting all four on her bed try to bring her to a reconciliation with Coco.
Toward eleven o’clock we make our way home on foot; there is almost no one about, and we shout and howl nonsense in terms so choice that it makes one shudder.
Ah! I forgot — Mmes de Ballote and de Wykersloovth called, and after their visit the mothers went to Monaco.
I forgot something else!
This is more serious. Dina and I stationed ourselves at the window; Bibi and Galula, I believe, did the same at the castle — we looked at each other through binoculars, and those two monkeys waved their handkerchiefs.
Then — after a few minutes we went up to the second floor, and from behind a shutter continued to look without being seen. And my aunt and Walitsky, that dear old thing, who were passing back and forth and scolding from time to time.
“Scold away, scold away,” I kept telling them; “without a stern aunt and a fellow like you, Walitsky, the Spanish balcony scene would not be complete.”
And I die laughing.
But let us return to the evening — oh! I am ashamed.
In front of no. 53, Dina shouts to me:
“Hey! Émile — wait up.”
“What! What do you want, Joseph!”
“I need to — attend to a small necessity!”
And she goes up to the wall!..
I am indignant — but the last time I went further: I went into one of those public urinals and Giroflé followed me, as she has just been telling me — she is here while I write.
It is strange: going to bed late ruins my complexion when I am bored — but when I am enjoying myself, nothing shows; I am fresh and rosy as though I had gone to bed at nine.

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Notes

Colonne de Vendôme — the Parisian street urinal, named after the Vendôme Column for its shape. ↩