Friday, 12 November 1875

Good heavens, I thought, looking at myself in the glass this morning — I am as pale as at Spa! Oh! This time I know to whom I owe it!
I went out to the garden and stayed there an hour, thinking and biting my nails, turning all these things over in my mind. I no longer want to enter the drawing room — it reminds me of the good old days and shows me all the tedium of the present.
I no longer believe in the cards! The cards were my consolation!
I ought to have seen from the beginning that there was nothing serious in it. The truth is there was enough to believe a great deal — for others, yes — but not for me; I saw and understood the game, but I hoped for something else.
How is one to stop hoping, stop waiting, for what one desires!
I have taken up smoking again — it happens every time I am miserable; I shut myself in my room most of the time, write, think, wander about the room, look at myself in the mirror, and smoke. I am absolutely incapable of reading, of doing anything.
The account of the party at Antonoff’s in La Vie mondaine so closely resembles the one we composed with Pépino that I laughed greatly about it with him yesterday.
— How malicious he is! said Maman, as we were driving home from the theatre — he is punishing her because she was a little flirtatious with Pépino.
— He is not punishing her, said my aunt — he is an ill-bred peasant. What I will say is this: his acquaintance can only be compromising. He is seen with a young girl, and immediately they are talked about everywhere — and then he withdraws.
My aunt is right. It is known that he associates only with women whom he courts. And he does it deliberately: he shows everyone that he is interested, he pursues the person, he is always with her — taking care to pay court publicly so as to make people talk — and then withdraws, satisfied with the effect.
Is that not infamous!
Oh! If I were a man I would do the same — and more.
It is not only today that I have seen clearly — I always saw it so, but I counted on taking revenge, and at the same time avenging so many women, by making him genuinely love me. I wanted to martyr him, to drive him to despair, to kill him even.
And what was I asking that was so extraordinary?
Does it not happen every day that a rake, a womaniser, falls madly in love and is in turn ill-treated! What the devil — people fall in love with women far uglier and stupider than I!
No! I am not as I was at Spa! It was a moment, in the morning. Thank God! The fear of being pale and weak for a year as at Spa made me shudder every time I saw myself a little pale.
Three encounters!
The first is papa in an open cab, dressed in grey. I mean old Audiffret — between ourselves we call him papa.
The second is near the Italian Theatre — barely has the carriage stopped before the man from the other day, the one who nearly leapt onto the carriage and whom we have not seen since, makes a movement to open the door, then draws back as if stupefied.
I step out of the carriage, quite flushed — he had only to jump at me, but he did nothing. Good, I thought, he is going to take me for an Italian singer.
But in the antechamber I stopped short — for through the glass door of the office-salon, I recognised the Surprising One, sitting on his cane — or rather, standing on his cane — gesticulating, chattering, and swaying, before Cresci, the man at the desk, the prima donna, and several other people.
I waited for Maman and entered only behind her.
— Good day, Mademoiselle, how do you do? he said, extending his hand.
— Good day, Monsieur, I replied — trembling within, pale without.
Total absence of the jolt. So you see it does not come from me.
Cresci immediately began making bows, presenting his artists to us, fussing around me.
Poor man! He does not know I am in disgrace.
— And when will you give us Mignon?
— Monday, miss, Monday.
— What, Monday! I thought it would be Saturday!
Then, with an air of great surprise, he began to say that it was for my sake he had delayed the performance. Indeed I had asked him to at the Antonoffs’, but I had not thought he would actually do it. The evening had been set for the 13th and here it is moved to the 15th. Cresci assures me with perfect sincerity that it is for me.
The strange man had meanwhile entered and sat down.
— But you are not leaving, grimaced the Surprising One — Madame will leave, but Mademoiselle will stay.
— On the contrary, said Maman — it is Madame who will stay, and Mademoiselle who is leaving.
— Oh! but not at all!
I was so moved and inwardly agitated that I remember nothing of what was said. Ah! Yes — I remember that the Surprising One said:
— You see, the young lady is in a great hurry to go to Paris for the Grand Hôtel.
— Yes, yes! I said, with a light tone, my head tilted to one side.
— Madame, you are going to choose a subscription, I said, turning to my mother.
— Well then, we are going to leave now, said the Surprising One, and he departed after shaking hands with my mother, with me, and with the others.
— Marie, said Maman softly, you will stay here, and I shall go ask who that man is.
— Very well; and while she went to ask, I examined the theatre plan, still quite stunned from the encounter and especially from the man’s departure.
— Well, my dear, said Maman on returning — do you know who that man is? He is the baritone of the Opera!
We take a subscription and go out.
Maman had found the man pirouetting in front of my aunt’s carriage.
— I asked you who that man was because he stared at our carriage in a most improper manner.
— Is he not a lunatic? asked my aunt.
— Why?
— Because he behaved in such a strange fashion!
— But Madame, if he looked so, it was the stupefaction of admiration!
Then Maman asked him for news of his marriage.
— Never in my life, Madame! It is false!
— But the whole city is talking of it.
We go to the promenade; I am furious, wounded — I complain, I grumble!
Every time I hope for a return, and every time I am disagreeably disappointed!
By Jove, by Jove!
I walk with my aunt; Godard and Chevalier are seated on a bench — before, they would have rushed over; now they merely bowed.
I walked along the Promenade and prayed to God — who would have supposed it?
I still believe, I still pray. Is it possible that it is always in vain! It is enough to drive one mad!
When I get back into the carriage, Audiffret appears. Is it possible that I am nothing to him any more.
It still seems to me — no; that he is posing; that it will pass!
Absurd girl!
Ah! That summer, that summer! God gives me a few days of calm so that I feel the torment all the more afterwards. That is wicked!
Have I prayed in vain! It would be enough to make me curse the whole world!
He was the man who made me fashionable — without him, nothing.
If I write another hundred pages I shall say no more, nor anything different.
I take my Graces to dinner and numb myself with laughter. While I change my dress, Giroflé is with me. I must always have someone to hold by the collar while I talk, to think aloud, so as not to sink into a stupor.
At the Antonoffs’ I had misunderstood everything — he had written nothing at all; he was amusing himself by pushing a piece of candle-guard that Paris had broken into a stamp.
How like him! He did not approach of his own accord — but Saëtone told him:
— Audiffret, sit here and talk with Mademoiselle. — I shall not sit down, replied the Surprising One; but then sat down, saying: I shall try to be as entertaining as M. Saëtone.
Before dinner we go walking on foot — the moonlight is surprising... I say a thousand mad things with Olga, and if Dina and Marie had been as wild as we, a great scandal would have ensued, for we wanted to dance in a circle around a priest who was passing, and then go to the London House.
Olga is writing a novel, apparently. After dinner we go to fetch it; I shut myself in with the girl and read — but at the second page I stop, and propose that we write one together. I supply the idea, everything, everything, everything — and the girl imagines she is composing too. It will be the story of Dumas and La Tour de Nesle — but I shall not assert my rights.
I set her to write me a love scene for tomorrow.
The girl has no pretensions and asks me for ideas, details, corrections, with perfect naivety. As for me, I set to work and in one stroke write the entire first chapter — in which my hero leaps through the window, breaks down a door, etc. etc.

Notes

La Vie mondaine (French title kept; “Society Life”) — the title of a society newspaper. ↩
In French in the original: secousse — literally “jolt” or “shock”: Marie’s word for the physical, electric thrill she feels at a touch or a parting handshake. ↩
In Italian in the original: Et quando ci darete Mignon ? ↩
In Italian in the original: Lunédi, signorina, Lunédi . ↩
In Italian in the original (with Marie’s characteristic errors): Corne Lunédi ! io pensa che sarebbe sabato ! ↩
In Italian in the original: Vedete, la signorina ha gran fretta d’andar a Parigi per il Grand Hôtel. ↩
In Italian in the original: Si, si ! ↩
In French in the original: Bigre de bigre ! — bigre is a mild oath (a euphemism for bougre), Audiffret’s own. ↩
In French in the original: surprenant — the adjective of Marie’s nickname for Audiffret, le Surprenant (the Surprising One). ↩
La Tour de Nesle (literally The Tower of Nesle; French title kept, 1832): the famous Romantic melodrama, subject of a notorious authorship dispute between Alexandre Dumas père and Frédéric Gaillardet. ↩