Sunday, 31 October 1875

I wake with a start, step into the dressing room, jump onto my overturned bathtub, open the little skylight that opens into the corridor — in which there is a window directly opposite — and begin to chatter in Nissart with the women of the rue de France.
“But what on earth were you doing last night, Mademoiselle?” asks Léonie, amazed.
“Why, I slept!”
“Oh no — you must have been studying Nissart.”
“Not at all — it came to me quite on its own upon waking; I spoke it at once.”
It is frightening how I speak like the Niçois — like the handsome Niçois.
Good God! Heavens above! How could I forget that yesterday, having let Dina and Marie go on ahead, Giroflé and I slipped back out, visited every bush, and carried out our little project. We threw six stones, and a street lamp bit the dust. How chic!
Unable to conceal anything, I recount it all and receive a scolding, to which I reply with nonsense.
Scold away, Maman; scold away, my aunt; scold away, everyone! It is the sugar of the thing.
There would be nothing pretty about it if you found it natural and proper.
Am I not right?
It is raining; Giroflé comes to my room after the Promenade — (I have not been out) — after the Promenade with Dina and Marie, and we shut ourselves in to practise spitting at a target.
Giroflé is an absolute treat of a girl; we grow closer and closer; she makes adorable observations.
My Graces dress at our house.
How droll this Giroflé is! She put her knee through a windowpane trying to see Bibi, and in the carriage, when someone said “There’s Pépino!” she threw herself at the window — but the glass was raised and she struck her face against it.
Around a quarter past nine we have serious anxieties! What if they don’t come!
To have prepared ourselves in vain! We go back up to my room to keep watch at the window, after having danced and sung with Coco.
I lay out a patience; the cards say yes — and Giroflé bursts in like a bombshell to announce them.
But what is my astonishment — that dear Bibi, who said the other day “So Sunday we gather at our house?” to which I replied “Not at your house, but at ours” — this dear Bibi brings us M. Sommier. It is strange.
On Friday, when Saëtone was at our house, I asked him about M. Sommier — Berthe mentions him in her letters. But that is no reason to bring him like this without warning.
M. Sommier is a man of thirty-five, lean, and english-looking.
Pépino, Bihovetz, Ricardo, Galula and Bibi are there.
No Saëtone. Alas! Alas! Alas!
Oh! But who will thrash him for me — who will thrash him? Not Saëtone, but Audiffer — the Surprising Émile!
He is an animal — an animal who greatly amuses you, Mademoiselle!
Pépino is quite domesticated by now and is becoming pleasant.
Poor Fiouloulou!
You know why I say “poor Fiouloulou!” Too thin a subject, my lord, for me to speak further.
“I hold a little too tightly when dancing,” says Audiffer, “but otherwise there would be no pleasure in dancing.”
You hear that!
Indeed he presses my waist and my hand — what a treat!
I am cold — it is past two — but I so want to write this evening.
No more sulking, no more quarrels! No more grimacing! Impossible to behave as I intended — at the least thing he becomes so amiable that to pull a long face would be ridiculous.
He asks for the tarot again. I give him the numbers and he reads the explanation in the little book.
Twice it predicts he will elope with someone.
“I apply it to myself!” he says.
“Completely wrong, Monsieur.”
“Next — that he will become entangled with a woman of loose morals. That too, twice.”
“Here, Monsieur — it is too droll! Read it.”
“Yes, yes,” he says, “but no — it is nothing.”
We are on entirely good terms together — not a shadow, not a cloud; I am not yet quite accustomed to it.
This poor lovesick girl comes to interrupt us ten times, begging us to stop and go dance. But I take no notice of anything. Poor Olga!
But then a tarot card says the man is in love with a blonde girl.
“I apply it! I apply it — that is true!”
“No — not that one, but the other.”
“You know,” he says to Olga, who approaches once more, “I am in love with a blonde girl — I apply it; it is true.”
“Not true at all,” I say. “You prefer the other.”
“Oh! Not at all — the other — that is — well! I prefer here. The other — I don’t want the other.”
“That is easier — it is possible, at any rate — whereas here you will have nothing. Never!”
We dance again, and again, and I with Bibi; he tells me again that he is in love with the blonde person.
“It is not true!”
“Oh!”
Still dancing.
Then this clown draws a heart pierced by an arrow.
“That is me,” he says.
“Since when, Monsieur?”
“Ah! But you don’t know what ‘since when, Monsieur’ means?”
I swore this would be my first word in these circumstances, and I have told the story at home a hundred times, and they laugh about it.
“I said since when?” I say to my aunt in passing. “My aunt — I said ‘since when’! A treat.”
My aunt doesn’t leave me alone with the man for a single second — the moment we isolate ourselves by any chance whatever, she runs after us. It is amusing — oh! I am amused!
He runs off into my studio — I run after him; we stop at the door of the green anteroom; he slips between the two panels of the door; I press him between them.
“Don’t go — what nonsense!”
“But why?”
“Ah! I tell you not to do anything foolish!”
He touches my hand with his finger — like an imbecile.
“What are you doing, Monsieur!”
“Ah! What pretty hands you have!”
At this moment my aunt comes running! I go into the salon, he into the dining room.
In a word, he is courting me very nicely. You understand my contentment — this contentment even spoils me; I am too animated, I forget my imposing manner.
They make me sing, but Walitsky accompanies badly; I stop, we laugh.
Then Bibi performs a hundred monkey-tricks, sings, pulls faces — to the great delight of the audience. You will see that tomorrow he will treat me with contempt!
Oh! But I have a lightning rod now.
crossed outAt our house we make...
These little Niçois are quite at their ease. Bibi... flutters about. Bihovetz plays, and everyone sings. Bibi spends — I don’t know how long — searching for the “blonde girl” in the little book.
“You know what I am looking for? Wait!”
“Not at all — I shall find you the other one; that is all you will get. Ah! I can’t find it — but you know what I mean?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly, Mademoiselle.”
“Really? Good.”
“A passable jolt. You know, Dina — it continues!”
“Aha!”
At supper I complain of my aunt’s pursuit and tell them everything.
It is stupid — I can never keep my diary properly; perhaps in a year, in a fit of remembrance, I shall recall a host of things. Let us wait, since one can do no otherwise.
What I regret is that one cannot marry for a fixed term — I am certain that a two-month marriage with Bibi would give me great pleasure.
So one must wait for freedom — so one will have to deceive! For don’t imagine I shall simply give up my Niçois — oh! not at all! One day we shall have business together. I have said it. The queen has spoken!
If I dared, here after such nonsense, to speak of God, I would say that I thank Him — He heard me! But I dare not; I shall not speak of it. He will know, without that, whether I thank Him!
“What, Monsieur,” says Maman at tea, “do you not receive the Journal de Nice?”
“No — I receive Le Figaro.”
“Not at all,” I say; “you receive Le Journal pour rire, Le Petit Journal, Le Grelot — that is what you receive!”
That is how we are together.
“Ah! But — I ask for an open-air ball!”
In these wretched salons one can accomplish nothing.
Listen — that is not what I desire! I desire a good declaration — quite serious, quite sweet, quite in order.
Ah! How I shall pray to God!
Do not mock me, you wise ones, atheists, brutes! You do not understand my character.
Bibi no longer restrains himself from looking at me — no more grimacing as before! A treat!
“Marie,” says Walitsky to the chambermaid, who comes in to bring something or other, “Marie — the day before yesterday Émile was like a rooster, and today he was like a turkey!”
I must leave — absence will show me the truth. For I swear I do not know whether I am truly in love or only for amusement.
You understand — I am still all worked up; tomorrow I shall be too. It takes time to understand.
I am a good girl — I told everything at supper, just as I have written it here.
Ah! But I demand seriousness!

Notes

The Nice dialect, a variety of Occitan. ↩
Marie’s coinage: une grondée [sic] — a non-standard noun; the usual word is gronderie. ↩
In French in the original: un sucre de fille — Bibi’s expression for something perfect, delightful; see the entry of 26 October. ↩
In English in the original. Marie uses English words to connote fashionable distinction. ↩
In French in the original: secousse — see the entry of 29 October. ↩