I am in Nice! From Paris to Lyon we were in snow. But it is strange — I am not transported as I used to be on arriving in my city.

At Toulon we encountered Collignon, and we bring him along with us. Maman and the Sapogenikoffs meet us at the station. The grown-ups take a hired cab and we return in our own carriage. Dina immediately tells me of every time she has seen Audiffret — and of the great scandal at the Opera. Maman and Dina were there that evening, in box no. 3; in box no. 5 were Audiffret père and his daughter. The Surprising One was in his box. Someone knocks at the door of our box; Dina opens it — it is Audiffret. But just as he is about to offer her his hand, he stops, hesitates, and throws himself back into the corridor as though frightened. He had just seen Mme d'Audiffret, his stepmother, enter. Dina was watching through the keyhole. He rushed toward his stepmother.

"I want Marie," she said. "I want my daughter — I have come to fetch her."

"You shall not have her, Madame!"

"I want to enter her box — I want my daughter and I shall enter!"

"You shall not enter!"

"I want to enter!"

"But this is to create a scandal — you are not dressed for the theatre."

"I want my daughter!"

Then, feeling himself observed, pale as a dead man, he drew close to his stepmother and began to speak to her in a low voice in Italian, his hands joined — but she, her back against the wall, all in black, wrapped in a long cloak and beautiful enough to frighten, said only these words: "I want Marie, I want Marie!"

"Very well — wait, Madame!" cried d'Audiffret. "Marie," he said, opening the door of the box, "your mother is here!"

"Impossible!" cried Marie with fright and disgust — and, quickly closing the door again, came and sat down beside her father.

Meanwhile Cresci and two other men, and the wretched Émile, were in the corridor. Cresci sweating like an ox, and imploring Mme d'Audiffret to contain herself.

"It was pitiful to see that poor Émile," said Dina. "He was pale as a dead man. He went into his box, showed himself there, then settled himself with the Arsons, then in another box again — like a madman, like a lost soul — all the while trying to appear calm. As for the father and daughter, they remained motionless as though afraid to stir, shut inside their box with someone guarding the entrance."

"We stayed as long as we possibly could," Dina continues, "on the pretext of waiting for the carriage. Only we and the Arsons remained in the theatre — the Arsons waiting in the salon below for the outcome of the scene above, from which one could hear cries and the noise of furniture being thrown. There must have been a terrible scene up there: M. d'Audiffret, his wife, his daughter, Émile, and two lawyers. The Arsons waited because they are friends of the family and know everything."

"Well," I say, "I pity the wretched Émile — and with all my heart."

At that moment we arrive in front of the Jardin Public — there is a concert, and Émile is there, about to get into his carriage. He was wearing a long yellow overcoat, very much like Hamilton.

I had a terrible desire to turn back in order to see him again — but I had just come from the station, and besides, he pretended not to have seen me.

I arrive home very sad; we chatter about everything — the Audiffrets, the scandal, all the rest. Galula goes to the Howards'; Audiffret ogled Hélène, who blushed like a cherry. Mme Prodgers took Pépino along and showed him at the theatre her bosom barely covered by a veil.

Audiffret has been very polite, has approached the carriage every time at the concert, but has not said a single word about me; and at the theatre, in the box, he chatted about everything as usual — but when by chance someone mentioned my name and said a few words about me, he cut himself off and went out at once.

"He has been told what you said about him," my mother tells me, "and now he hates you."

"See how convenient," I say coldly. "I hate him too."

"But he hates you," says my aunt. "From love to hate is but one step," she added, because Collignon was there.

"You must be so careful," my mother continued. "You said: 'Audiffret is good for a waltz, but for marriage — fie! what filth!' — and you did not look to see whether there were servants in the room."

Perhaps she is right, my mother.

What is done is done. The idea that he will go to the Howards' chills me; I say no more, and listen to the others in a state that would move anyone to pity.

The Sapogenikoffs have a box at the Opera. I shall go.

I bathe in front of Olga, then read her my sublime work, and then we dress.

I wear a dress of white barège, made like a bodice — somewhat like a nightgown, open at the front as though by accident, and drawn in at the waist by a wide ingenue belt. I am tired and not as white as usual.

Audiffret père and fils are there. Who knows? Which of the two is the victim — the man or the woman?

Perhaps she is a wretch — a depraved woman who wants her children only for the money and to make scandal. It may also be that the husband is a dreadful, brutal man (he is known for his brutality), debauched, coarse, who martyrs her with the help of his son.

And who knows still — the devil perhaps, not I.

That scene in the theatre corridor — that woman so beautiful, dressed in black, her back against the wall, demanding her daughter — has inclined me toward her.

On the other hand — ah! on the other hand, there is only the young man. The father is a brute; the daughter an unworthy girl who, before the judges, told horrible things about her mother — they say she had been the Prince of Monaco's mistress, and that the daughter refused to call her "mother."

And who knows — the child is perhaps carried away, coached to say such things, persuaded by her father that her mother is a bad woman. Who knows? Always who knows. I judge no one; I recount this because the affair, touching a man in whom I take an interest, becomes almost personal to me.

The auditorium is even sadder than usual. Not once since I have been in Nice have I had a pleasant evening at the Opera. Pépino greets me from below and goes off to Mme Prodgers, who will no doubt show him something very fine this evening as well.

Audiffret fils looks dishevelled — I do not know what he has done; I have avoided looking at him. I do not want him to think he interests me. The father, so perfectly comme il faut, is a fine sight with his son.

Toward the end, when the old man is left alone, I study him through my glasses, hiding behind Marie; I tried in his face to find the features of the young man — he resembles him.

No one came to see us. The auditorium in general was ugly and sad; the four of us laugh in spite of the general melancholy.

I return home stupefied and indifferent — which is the most wretched state. I would rather weep.

Oh! The cards! Those cursed cards that predict the slightest things to me.

For tomorrow they promise me a very great joy at heart, and that I shall see the dark king. Well — I stopped; I joined my hands and closed my eyes, so happy was I at seeing these cards. I do not want to say that I love him — and yet I behave as though I did. Every time I am on the point of saying "I love him," I draw back. I did not see him well this evening — without opera glasses I do not see well, and I did not dare stare at him.

But it is unworthy to occupy oneself with him, I say to myself — it is shameful, it is sordid: a man who does not even look at me, who has made a fool of me. And I do not love him, and yet, apart from him there is nothing for me at this moment. Everything he does seems right to me. I think of nothing but him; I dress only for him — for every new hat in Paris I imagined the effect it would have on him. Let him speak to me, let him come, and I am perfectly satisfied; let him show himself attentive and I am happy. Where he is not, there is nothing for me. I follow his every move; the slightest things acquire importance when said by him; I remember his slightest words, and often I speak as he does — insofar as is possible without having his masculine, low voice.

I have no memories but of him; at every moment I find something to say about him, or a word of his to repeat.

I have insisted on stating all of this precisely. Draw your conclusions. I know well what you will say: You love him! And perhaps you are wrong. I do not love him — I hate him with all the force with which I might have loved him.

He has humiliated me, outraged me, vexed me, driven me to fury, to rage — and I shall never forgive him.

He cares nothing for my forgiveness, no doubt! True — but I speak for myself. Nothing in the world effaces in me a grudge that I have once taken up. It seems to me that if he... no, I shall not say it — that would be too stupid. Well, it seems to me that even if he did anything whatsoever, I should never forget that he once despised me.

Do you understand all the wounding, all the horror of that word? Despised!

I understand it — I who remember the slap my brother gave me more than twelve years ago, and who, remembering it, am as furious as if I had just received it now; I who have kept at the bottom of my heart a kind of hatred for my brother on account of that childhood outrage. It was, moreover, my only slap — but in return I have given a good quantity of them to everyone.

I wanted to love Audiffret; he despises me — so I shall set about hating him, and at every turn, at every opportunity, making him miserable, and not only now and here, but everywhere, for my entire life. Ah! he does not know how much wickedness there was in my eyes this afternoon, when I looked at myself in the mirror — even I was slightly frightened by it.

One can forgive everything, except contempt. I would forgive a cruelty, an outburst, insults said in a moment of anger, an infidelity even — when one returns and still loves. But contempt!

Ah! Find me a woman, a real woman, who forgives contempt — who does not detest the man who has despised her!

And I — wretched creature — am I not sufficiently disdained, forgotten, despised by everyone! Oh! truly, there are moments when I despair; I no longer have the strength to be courageous — when everything fails me, when everything flees me, when everything makes a face at me! But no, nothing, nothing! Ah! yes — the dresses, the dresses have turned out very well, and the hats too! Ah ha! There — that is what I have: dresses!

See what a happy girl! But of whom am I complaining? For a moment I thought everything had changed — I was wrong. Everything is as before; we are still rejected, disdained. Oh! no, nothing has changed — absolutely nothing.

Audiffret is merely a wisp of straw I am clinging to in order to complain about other things!

God! God! Will He not put an end to my torment? If I could only leave! But in Rome it will be the same! I am cursed in this world. It is terrible to say — but more terrible still to experience.

I have no more strength, no more courage! God, God! My God, change my existence! Do I not deserve pity? I pray to You so much.

My God, You are my only refuge! And so I always come to You — descend a little toward me!