By the grace of God and the telegraph messenger, I have at last learned of the purchase of the Villa Boismilon. It is a very good investment for capitalists such as ourselves. Only it will cause a great scandal, given that this property is not yet paid for — and I have no wish that it should be, since there are far more pressing payments to be made: the furniture, for instance, which we need and which is for us and no one else. There will be a scandal, therefore, since the Boismilon property will be sold again because Mme Romanoff has not paid for it — and until everyone knows which villa it is that is being resold, people will assume, will cry out, will howl that it is the villa on the Promenade des Anglais.

This fine speculation was long concealed from me — but you know that dirty dealings always rise to the surface. I am assured that our new property is not paid for, though I do not believe a word of it. For six months I have been told that no villa was purchased, and in any case where would the money be that I have been fruitlessly trying to account for these six months?

Truly — by hiding things from me you will produce a great many vexations of which you will repent, but too late.

And I, absurd creature, was listening to the reproaches they dared make to me over the furniture. Forty thousand francs thrown out of the window, and they dare to speak to me of the furniture — which we need and which is for us!

And I listened and thought: perhaps I was wrong to order so much!

"People who proceed by devious means can often entangle those who are honest."

From this letter I am writing to my mother, one can understand what is at stake. The fact is that we have three villas in Nice: our own, the Boismilon, and the one where my beloved and most cherished Uncle Georges lives — may the plague choke him. When I learned of this this morning I wept for two hours. It is understandable. We are heading towards ruin. But I do not like to dwell on painful subjects; and even if by writing I could correct matters — but I could write all I liked and nothing would change.

In short, my aunt is embarrassed by having made such fine deals.

[Written crosswise: It is truly remarkable to see the same person writing pages that are lively and amusing, and then inanities like this entire notebook.] From four to five o'clock I had Berthe to visit.

They are making me divine dresses — all in white.

I am bored to death; my only consolation is the shops. When I am being fitted I breathe again — so in order to breathe I place orders: every day something new.

It is strange — I have no wish at all to see Audiffret; I only want him to see me, always for the same reason, for that stupid idea which will not leave me. This evening I occupy myself with writing "Wretch, you will rot!" — I shall make three hundred and sixty-five of these letters, and every day Bibi will receive one; he will be furious. Let me calculate: three hundred and sixty-five times fifteen centimes — that comes to fifty-four francs a year. He does not cost much.

[In the margin: Marie works out the multiplication 365 × 15]

As I have a quantity of dresses and all manner of things, I have a mind to return to Nice. I shall be dressed like no one else — and with a surprising simplicity.

He shall have letters, the blasted Audiffret! Heliogabalus, you will rot! Sardanapalus, you will rot! Mordecai, you will rot! Antiochus Epiphanes, you will rot — and so on. Cresci will weep; Ardigo too. Then: Émile, alias the Depraved One, you will rot! You blasted libertine, and so forth.

I have composed twenty-five of them; three hundred and sixty-five are needed. See how I occupy myself with no one but this blasted man.

But the distance does not make me sad — not at all. I feel as I always do when I see no one.