Thursday, 18 November 1875

in the margin
A notebook readers would do well to skip. It contains nothing but reflections on Audiffret.
Inserted itemmémo sur la page de titre du Livre 50
T.P.L. Alex. Dumas
Worn out, weary, crushed!
Clothes will devour me and my money. But I came to Paris for that very purpose; one must do things properly. It goes without saying that I’m having nothing made in colour — everything white. I shall have... no.
I feel sad, on edge — I often want to cry, but that is nonsense. It has a peculiar effect on me, staying in the rooms where that wretch once lodged.
At the table d’hôte I meet Winslow and his mother. My aunt and I speak of the Surprising One. She tells me he is courting Leech, who is pretty as a doll and very rich. And already I am jealous of Leech, and furious — for I saw with what animation she responded to him the other evening at the Opera.
No, really, that Niçois of mine is a fortunate mortal. Everyone fêtes him, all the women make eyes at him. Oh! but it was so obvious at the Opera — when he entered Leech’s box she brightened at once, just as I did when he came to ours. And he sees it. How happy he is. I should like to be like him.
If he does not marry her, yet another girl for my cudgel blows to avenge! Oh, the blasted fellow!
If people loved me as they love him, I should do the same. He is loved at once — if not with true love, then with something that bears a very strong resemblance to it.
And now I shall torment myself over Leech! I have discovered a new quality in myself: I am jealous as a she-devil — I could scratch out the eyes of every last one of them. No — let us keep that for later.
That evening we go to see La Créole, Offenbach’s latest success. Judic is adorable, but I suffer from the heat and the impudent stares of several men. Barely gone from Nice, I am already thinking of going back — thinking of nothing else. Nice is the only place where I feel right. Now, please do not go imagining a heap of nonsense — the thing you are thinking of spoils Nice for me and does not draw me there; on the contrary. I love Nice for itself, and there is nowhere in the entire world more adorable.
I no longer smoke, which puts me in a bad temper — but I forbid myself to smoke, and I no longer smoke.
I no longer love Audiffret; I am humiliated — that is all. No — I am still very in love, and besides, I do nothing to stop being so; it amuses me.
One sighs, one wants to cry, one becomes poetic — yet one still eats perfectly well. One understands so perfectly all the platitudes the actors declaim about love; what one never noticed before now goes straight to the bottom of one’s heart and finds its place there. No, truly, love is full of interest.

Notes

La Créole (French title kept; “The Creole”) — an operetta by Offenbach, new in 1875. ↩