The blasted father and the blasted daughter have left — their floor is shut up at the Tour. No doubt they are fleeing Mme d'Audiffret, who is still here. Émile has no doubt left too — the cards say so, and besides one does not see him on the Promenade.

Yesterday the cards predicted a gay day for me — and so it was. For today everything is black. There is a great cold. I am frozen. Because of the weather one sees no one. Mme Sabatier opens her salons today. The further the season advances, the more I feel our wretched position, our isolation. I encountered the two Howard daughters — they seemed animated and particularly happy; I immediately imagined they had just seen the man. They had that look. One can see at once, by the nature of the animation, what is the cause. As for Hélène — if it was not the man, it was a man.

It will be terrible for me if he begins going to the Howards' — staying near them at the concert, walking with them on foot! With the Howards! Think of it!

Poor man — he is so tormented now by his family affairs.

Yesterday, as is my habit, I tried to pray to God that He might make Audiffret fall in love with me — and I could not. I did not want it badly enough. What torments me is what always torments me: our life, our position.

Need I say that I think of nothing else — and that this torment, forgotten for a moment during the summer, returns more terrible, more tormenting, more unbearable than ever!

Mme Sabatier receives; every day new salons will open. And we — we — are nowhere! O damnation!

I find Nice society infamous — and I shall say why.

Mme Prodgers, who for so many years has amused people, gathered them, enlivened the whole city, received more than anyone, who has spent a great part of her fortune feeding and entertaining the pigs here — to the point where she is said to be ruined — Mme Prodgers is the victim of an unworthy cabal! While everyone is at Sabatier's, she walks about with her children.

Her position is horrible. She has all my sympathies now. I love Mme Prodgers. She must be so miserable, so humiliated.

Oh, the world, the world! When shall I hold it in my hand to stifle it, under my foot to crush it!

I am so happy to be at home, in my own house. I am lodging in my large dressing room — my aunt's old bedroom. In a month my room will be ready; I shall see it on returning from Rome. I think of nothing but returning from Rome — having my carriage, continuing the studies I shall have begun in Rome, following the prescriptions of my professors. And then going to Russia.

So many things have suffered, so much money has been lost, on account of my cancelled journey.

And then I think of the Russian. For want of something better, one could make do with him.

Madwoman that I am — I forget that everything fails me and nothing succeeds, and I speak like a conqueror!