Wednesday, 10 November 1875

Dina and I had the good fortune to see the fiery lord of the château at his window.
While we are at the concert, he passes us in his neat little carriage and, far from avoiding my eye, bows. He could easily have not bowed — the landau was half closed and he passed very quickly.
What a handsome boy.
Does he at least say to himself: what a pretty girl?
Antonoff and Nemekoff are near us. See what handsome men!
The concert over, we go up to my Graces’ and strut about on their balcony. Bibi passes and does not even look up — to my great satisfaction, for Olga was flushed and eager!
Ah! but I was on the point of leaving at two o’clock for Paris — but the Opera première is announced for Saturday, so I stay, after hesitating for three hours. Weak character!
I shall leave on Sunday.
What a pity I have no low-cut dress. I have such beautiful arms. In Nice they have never seen such whiteness and such form.
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I walk with Maman — I prefer it with her, for I am taller than Maman, who is of average height, while my aunt is a full half-head taller than I.
Not a soul we know.
— It seems you are a success, my mother says to me with satisfaction; everyone is looking at you.
— It is because I am in white, I replied modestly.
Audiffret passes in his carriage and bows again.
I no longer blush.
— How pale he is, said Maman.
— Perhaps he is ill, I said, laughing — for Madame my mother would like to attribute his pallor to something else. But he passes along the Promenade once more, going in the same direction as we walk.
— Good heavens, cried Maman, how he looks! It is the first time I have seen him fix you so. Our eyes met — I even turned away abruptly, for he was piercing you with his gaze.
— Really! But no, it is his manner of looking at everyone — it is the nature of his eyes.
— No, no — ah! but — she resumed, as if talking to herself — I have never seen him look like that, and how pale he is!
We wait a rather long time for the carriage, sitting on a bench; night is falling, but I am not afraid — I am so well known.
Barely in the carriage before Maman repeats what she told me about the eyes and the pallor.
— And from which you conclude, Mesdames?
— We conclude nothing whatsoever! I am answered, in a triumphant tone.
— Ah! That is fortunate!
At the Antonoffs’, Audiffret carried off Olga’s handkerchief and glove, and with their customary swiftness of imagination, mother and daughter persuaded themselves that everything was settled and there was nothing left to do but thank the Good Lord. Madwomen! — when he has not even left his card at their house.
Yesterday at dinner my aunt announced that Audiffret was at last getting married — to his cousin from Marseille; that she had seen the draft marriage contract at Desforges’, and that Desforges had told her everything. She said it so naturally that everyone believed it — except me, Maman, and Dina, who were in on the plot. Olga turned red, eyes brimming with tears, her smile crestfallen.
I revelled in her torment; she laughed and cried out like a woman possessed — as I did when I learnt of the Duke’s marriage.
Walitsky, who went to escort her home, witnessed a delicious scene — the mother prostrate, convinced everything had been arranged; the daughter screaming and making faces! A real treat!
This evening the first performance of the Circus — I hesitate for two hours and end by not going.
If Bibi is there, he will treat me like dirt and court Olga, and I shall rage. I take no pleasure in seeing him; what I want is for him to see me — so as to please him.
No, decidedly, I shall not go. In any case, it is better not to go.
The evening passes in fortune-telling and talking nonsense. The letter is always promised to me, and I do nothing but exclaim:
— Good Lord! If only it would come!
— But someone is writing to you already, said Maman — there, over there!
— Maman, do not talk nonsense.
— But what does it matter to you!
— It matters because it is the one thing I desire at this moment. Do understand that!
I desire nothing so much — and if it comes, I shall consider myself satisfied.
— There! said Maman and my aunt, with many gestures of astonishment.
My frankness is staggering. But then someone says something — I know not what — that displeases me, and I turn my chair round and press my forehead against the wall.
— That’s it, that’s it! cried my aunt. Very good, perfect, my dear!
Then I realise at last that what I had just done was so entirely Audiffret-like that he himself could not have done more — like him. I blush and sit down... properly, smiling a particular smile whose meaning is never mistaken.
In sum, I do not complain — the vexation I feel is a respectable vexation, the kind that every well-born soul is permitted to feel. It is the vexation of love.
I claim to be a serious woman — judge for yourself.
With what am I occupied?
With putting the letter to old Audiffret into verse.

Notes

In French in the original: comme il faut. ↩