Ah! How tiresome life is when one has not three hundred thousand francs a year.

We were at my beautifiers' and also at Binder's — tomorrow we shall decide about the carriages. Then I went to Berthe's, with whom I am still in correspondence; I spent almost an hour with her. The two of us are on a strange footing — not the friendship one has between young girls; we are simple acquaintances.

It is adorably cold — but let us leave that, and come to the evening. We are not going to the theatre, and we receive a letter from Maman, with an extract from the newspaper, where the opening of the Opera in Nice is discussed and a great many fine things are said about us. So people do occupy themselves with me! But let us pass on: Maman has been to the Opera again; there was some mix-up over the box, and old Audiffret came and gave her a box next to his. Then everyone without exception came to see her — she was with Dina and Olga. Girofla came too. Everyone asked after my aunt and me. Girofla — not a word, exactly as though he had never known us.

"From which I conclude," Maman writes, "that he is not indifferent — for if he were, he would have spoken and asked after you like everyone else. We saw him again at the concert and he approached the carriage."

On reading this letter I perform a thousand extravagances, to my aunt's astonishment. What amuses me above all is Audiffret père, who came to speak to my mother and give her a box!

Immediately I take a blank sheet and write, disguising my handwriting, a letter to Alexandre Dumas.

Monsieur,

Here is a recent and true story from which your marvellous talent could make a remarkable drama or novel.

A wealthy gentleman of forty-five married a sixteen-year-old girl in Spain. He brings her back to his château in France. Being a widower, he had a son aged eight. After fifteen years this child has become a young man of twenty-three. He is handsome, passionate, spoiled, but loyal and good. His stepmother is barely thirty-one; she is beautiful. They fall in love, and... she has a child.

Tormented by remorse, she can no longer bear the presence of her husband, who knows nothing. She contrives to be discovered with another man; her husband fires at her but misses; she flees to a convent where her husband pursues her. He wants to bring a lawsuit against her, to take away her children — the elder daughter is fifteen; one could make wonderful use of her.

There is also a scene between the young man and the woman, in which he tries to bring her back to a reconciliation with her husband, showing her all the scandal that will fall upon her daughters from this rupture.

It ends with a legal separation of person and property — but if you wish you may kill off whomever you please, excepting the young man, who is in excellent health.

Reply to me, Monsieur, through the petites correspondances of Le Figaro, if you agree with me that there is something in this — to the initials T.P.L.

"It is wicked and absurd," says my aunt.

"It is more than wicked, more than absurd — it is cowardly. But what would you have? And besides, does not everyone know this story?"

"Yes, but no one speaks of it — and if no one speaks of it, it is not out of consideration for the old man, who is a fool, an imbecile, and whom everyone knows as such, but out of consideration for the young man, whom people like, whom people respect — because... because he has done harm to no one."

What she says is true. It is only since Bibi appeared in society that the old man has been left in peace.

"Why does he look so fierce?" Collignon was asking Barnola one day.

"Because he has been much pelted with stones."

"Ah!"

"Yes — it is only since the son goes about in society that people began to look on him properly: the son maintains himself and makes himself respected."

Is what I am doing wicked, or not?

This letter is absurd and wicked, as my aunt says.

If I were certain that this letter would do him harm, cause him trouble, I should not hesitate a moment — I would send it at once. But it may prove useless, and in that case why do it? If Dumas writes a novel or a play, people will talk of it, it will become known in Nice. Audiffret will be furious. Ah! If only he were!

[Written crosswise: Good God, how stupid and provincial this is!!!]

Now, do not take me for a base and vile creature. I am carried away and cannot quite account for myself. I shall wait until tomorrow. But I am already vile and base for having had such an idea, and for not having driven it away at once, and for still hesitating now. If I hesitate, it is because I do not have Alexandre Dumas's address — for no other reason.

I also write to my mother:

We received your letter containing such grave news — but you have forgotten the main thing: what is my cousin Miss Robenson, the Pointed American, doing? You know that I made her acquaintance as long ago as Spa.

Bueno is going to Nice; Winslow and his mother too — I spoke with them this evening at some length; they are in the same hotel as us. It will all be most interesting.

How is she, my cousin Robenson?

So long as she does not take it into her head to dress in white — it would suit her; she is so angular!

I think we shall stay here a few days more; we are waiting for the reply from Malaussena — the wretched Duval business must be settled.

It is cold. I saw Berthe; we spoke again of Sommier — it seems he is deaf. We also touched briefly on Pertusati.

It is astounding — the costumes in Les Scandales d'hier. As for La Vénus de Gardes, Berthe told me one cannot bear to see it; it is badly performed and excessively indecent.

In short, I find that life is really tiresome when one has not three hundred thousand francs a year. To be short of money is not at all interesting.

What! You stayed at the theatre next to that blasted girl who speaks ill of me? It is outrageous — find me a way to thrash her. I bear her a terrible grudge; she is a foul creature. Has Dina sent off my letters? They must arrive before I do.

If you see Saëtone, give her my regards — but to no one else.

Au revoir,

Marie.