I slept twelve hours, and at my fitting at Laferrière's I felt faint — it is true that they kept me standing for two hours in those blasted dresses.

We ordered from Binder: a landau, eight springs, five seats, dark navy blue, the finest of the fine — price six thousand francs — and a duc in the same colour, price one thousand eight hundred francs. The duc is for me. I can already see myself in this little carriage, driving myself, in Nice, in the spring!

"Connais-tu le pays..."?¹

I was in a rage this morning, just as with Audiffret. The dresses did not fit — it was enough to drive one mad, just as with Audiffret.

I have just come back from the theatre — I saw Le Voyage dans la lune, an opéra bouffe-féerie: Offenbach's new triumph.

But we had a companion — an absurd blockhead, Winslow. It was killing, but it made me speak English. While speaking English I thought in Niçois. See how stupid the world is: if in Nice one saw a young man spending a whole evening talking in my box, they would say... no, they would say nothing — or rather, they would say something, if that young man were Audiffret.

I spoke to Berthe about Robenson; Berthe turns up her nose at her. The Gonzalès turn up their noses at Berthe. They all turn up their noses at one another. Is it not comical?

"Will you be going to Nice?" I asked Robenson one day.

"No — Maman finds that Nice society is too mixed," she replied.

The impertinence of it.

Ah! She has come back for her Émile, whose cravats she was always tying. It seems this is done. At Baden, Berthe always had something to do with Rémy's cravat; and at Nice, Robenson always had something to do with M. d'Audiffret's cravat.

When that young rogue was making a show of courting me, I too — to do as others do — spoke about his regatta and even his hat. It seems this is the thing to do.

Tomorrow I have no fittings — what shall I do? What! What shall I do? Why, my novel — for I have not abandoned it; it is advancing. I am at this moment in search of an inextricable situation.

Things must be tangled up; my heroine — myself — must suffer; my hero — Audiffret — must do terrible things; a guileless young girl — Olga — must be woven in; she must be made to groan. No, you will see — it will be very charming.

If, as I hope, I complete this masterwork and launch it, it will be a great success in Nice and cause a scandal — for it will contain Mme Fougers, M. Sasurprend, M. Tulula, M. Ligier, Mme la Princesse Ligier, Mme Serviette, etc. etc.