Sunday, 21 November 1875

No doubt they are talking about me in Nice, for two nights now I have been dreaming of every Niçois, possible and impossible.
Ah! I was forgetting: yesterday, coming home from the theatre, I chatted with Winslow. Only now do I remember that he paid court to me at Spa.
Back to the dream. We were at the theatre, in our usual box; all the gentlemen came to see us, and when it was the Surprising One’s turn to bid me good evening:
“What, you are leaving already?” I said, holding out my hand. He looked me in the eyes, and I, without confusion or blushing, did the same, leaving my hand in his. And that look, which lasted several seconds, was so real that I still wonder whether it was a dream or reality. he was looking at me As I saw in his astonished eyes the desire to obey me:
“Do stay, then,” I said, turning away and gently withdrawing my hand. And, triumphant and enchanted, I looked round at everyone as if to say: See what a clever woman I am! I willed it, and here he is again, beside me.
But when I turned back to him, he was no longer there.
And the box opposite was full of Niçois, some I know and some I don’t.
I want to go back to Nice; the longer I stay here, the longer my departure for Rome is put off. Paris is dull for me: I see no one, I know no one, it is cold, it rains.
If only I could smoke, at least — it would take my mind off things.
But I will not smoke: it spoils my voice, and now more than ever I need every talent I can muster. Mlle Robenson, without knowing it, is doing me an immense amount of good: she makes me eat rare meat, drink very strong wine and take Leras’s iron phosphate. For nothing in the world do I want to be pale, especially now — people would only have to say that... and they would be right.
I had already begun to grow pale, but for three days now I have been taking care of myself; I shall not give the evil spirit time to make me ugly.
written across the page
The evil spirit is Audiffret, my girl!
After spending some time writing my novel, I go to Mme de Mouzay’s, but she is in the country.
Paris is absurd! It is cold and damp.
Now, if ever, is the time for me to sing:
Do you know the land where the orange tree blooms, The land of golden fruit and crimson roses, Where the breeze is softer and the bird more light, Where in every season the bees gather honey, Where, like a blessing from God, there shines and smiles An eternal spring beneath a sky forever blue? Alas, that I cannot follow you To that far land from which fate exiled me! It is there that I would live, Love, love, and die!
Only, the novel no longer makes me cry.
I spend my time thinking aloud, and my aunt says I am mad, and I laugh and she laughs. It is full of interest.
What a delightful play Les Scandales d’hier is! And acted to perfection! The part of the duke was modelled on Audiffret; needless to say, I found him adorable.
“The duke is Gigo” (that is one of Audiffret’s names), my aunt said as we came out of the Vaudeville.
“Isn’t he like him?”
“No! There she goes, seeing her Gigo everywhere!”
“But it isn’t me, it’s you.”
It is funny all the same!
I am dying to go back to Nice — not for Audiffret, but for the Robenson girl. Does that seem odd to you? It does to me too.

Notes

Les Scandales d’hier (French title kept; “Yesterday’s Scandals”). ↩