At three o'clock we go out. I, who came to Nice in search of fine weather, find Parisian cold here. I put on my otter-fur hat in the shape of a baby bonnet, and my great sable fur coat covered in white cloth. This outfit creates a sensation, and I am not bad-looking, despite the fatigue.

Audiffret has forgotten his pinched expression, and after bowing he turned around and looked at me — as if to say, "Ah ha!" — and then turned around again, quite with a start, if one may put it so. This pleased me, and I laughed at his astonished face.

"That was charming," said Maman. "He did it as he would have for his sister."

"I, for my part," said Collignon, "find such things impertinent."

"I," I say, "found his face stupid."

On the Avenue de la Gare we see, in a hired cab and quite alone, Mme d'Audiffret — beautiful as an angel, despite everything.

"I beg you," I say in the carriage, "leave Audiffret in peace — we have been occupied with him for a year; he is thoroughly worn out. As for me, I am beginning to hate him — not his face, but his character. And yesterday evening, on entering my room, I said: 'I swear to hate M. Émile d'Audiffret and to make his life miserable in every way, always and everywhere, at every turn, in everything I can.'"

Barnola comes in the evening. Good God, what a gossip! I listened with a certain admiration.

And this evening proved most useful to me: I learned a great many things — a great many Nice scandals, a great many adventures and affairs that I shall place in my novel.

They say that a cabal is forming against Mme Prodgers, and that beginning with the Prefect's wife, no one wishes to receive her.

Poor woman. I know what it is to be outside society, and I pity her with tears in my eyes — especially her, who has been a queen.

Yesterday evening she was at the Théâtre-Français with Robenson, who has lost her fresh complexion and who is twenty-eight. Then that blasted gossip recounts the Audiffret scandal at the theatre; people discuss it briefly. It seems they will blame the blasted daughter for having abandoned her mother. Barnola believes that Émile will sacrifice himself for his father and sister and will not marry now — for his wife would not want all that blasted mess! "I believe," says the great gossip, "that he will sacrifice himself; he loves his father greatly, and he is a good fellow, capable of self-sacrifice."

But what is truly disgusting is this: I hear that Galula is telling everyone everywhere that he would like to marry me.

Such a thing requires no comment from me. It is horrible!

I really have no luck.

Ah! How tiresome life is!