Saturday, 4 December 1875

Yesterday at the station, Audiffret approached Maman, who was going to Monaco. He had the most disreputable look in the world, with his long yellow overcoat unbuttoned and flapping, in the company of Gros and Mayer, the former banker.

One would have to be me to have humiliated oneself so far as to take an interest in an Audiffret. And I am truly ashamed — truly ashamed and mortified. A Nice peasant who goes slumming with the likes of Gros and company — fie! So long as he conducted himself well, it was still all right. But now — the theatre, the singers, the cocottes, and Gros. He is entirely soiled by it. You may not believe me, but I shall say it all the same: not only do I not love him — I no longer even occupy myself with him; I find him a peasant, a scoundrel, a nonentity. I was going to say “degrading” — but that is too strong; it would imply he means something to me. I no longer wish to shower him with insults — he does not deserve them. A little Nice fop. There you are.¹

À propos of Audiffret — Maman dreamed of him last night. She saw a great religious procession, and behind everyone else, on a two-wheeled cart, very high and all black, Audiffret in a black soutane with a white cross on his chest.

“Maman, look,” I said to her in the dream, pointing to Audiffret. “There is a good and true Catholic.”

At these words she woke. This dream bodes nothing good for Audiffret.

If he could die, he would do me a favour. I wish everyone ill.

I wept at Maman’s — and at luncheon I announced that I am going to study singing and become an actress. And I shall do it — if God is good enough to preserve my voice I shall do it. It is the only means for me to acquire the fame I thirst for — for which I would give ten years of my life without hesitation. I cannot rot here!

I need noise, brilliance, glory! And I shall have them — with God’s help².

It has never happened that one has willed something and not obtained it. I have the vastest ideas in the world. I am desolate about the lack of society. But away with all that! Is that what I want?

A hundred times no! A thousand times no!

I was born to be a remarkable woman — no matter by what means or how.

All my tendencies incline toward the great of this world, toward crowned heads — they alone are my equals; the rest is beneath my feet, so far beneath that it is extraordinary.

I shall be famous, I shall be great — or I shall die. It is impossible that God should have given me this desire for glory as He gave it to Severus,³ for nothing, without purpose. My time will come, and I believe it so firmly that I spit on everything and everyone. I am happy when I think as I do today.

Oh! my voice!

I went to the concert — there was a great crowd, but nothing more curious than Mme Vigier.

I let out a little cry on seeing her. One can never imagine anything more absurdly extravagant and ridiculous.

We went to the Opera to get a box for this evening — they are giving The Barber,⁴ my little favourite opera. I know the Surprising One will not be there — he is in Menton for a few days, he told Maman. But what do I care? I shall never forgive myself for having occupied myself with such a scoundrel. I am in a golden cloud. I aspire to something unheard-of, fabulous — I want to reveal myself to the world. I want to be famous. I shall sing.

It is amusing — the whole Italian company bows to me.

We are this evening in box no. 2, and directly opposite in box no. 2 is the old worn-out dog.

I have my Empire dress, in which I love myself best — a coiffure of an Olympian goddess, and hair falling below the waist, naturally curled at the ends. A radiant and fresh face — without being red like roastbeef⁵ or like Hélène Howard. I am as usual greatly remarked — but only Bihovetz and Cardinal Antonelli come to see us.

When Bihovetz remains alone I am more at ease. It is decreed that if not the son, then the father; if not the father, then the dog; if not the dog, then the horse — but only the father. He studied me through his glasses like a madman or a friend. I let him look, without glancing in his direction, so that he might examine me at leisure — being very well pleased with myself this evening. The general is as always charming.

“I say,” I say to him, “do you know what I am going to do?”

“What are you going to do, Mademoiselle?”

“I am going to be a mirror.”

“How so?”

“Watch.”

And I take père’s pose: he rests his hand on the balustrade — I do the same; he leans on his hand — I lean on mine; he leans back in his armchair — I lean back in mine; he plays with his watch-chain — I play with my ribbon; he sits carelessly and rests his hand on his knee — I imitate him; he puts his fist on his hip — I do the same; he pulls his ear — I pull my ear; he twists his moustache — I pretend to twist my own imaginary moustache.

I laugh — he smiles gently.

The general laughs, Dina laughs, my aunt laughs. Every minute père changes the position of his hand — I imitate him like the most faithful mirror. It is the last act; the theatre is half empty and I continue my game freely to the last moment. He puts on his overcoat — I put on my fur coat; he approaches the balustrade — I do the same. The curtain falls; I stop a moment before leaving — père does the same, looks at me, and removes his hat.

On the right there was no one; on the left four boxes were empty — it is certainly I he bowed to. Unless it was someone below — but no, since he was looking at me.

I go out leaping with joy. While we wait for our carriage the immense Pépino comes to greet me.

“Are you ill, that one no longer sees you?” I say to him.

I declare to Antonelli and the general that I have just fallen suddenly in love with old Audiffret — and they help us into the carriage.

I return home laughing and gay and chattering about père.

But once before the mirror: “Ah! my aunt — I shall say as Rosina: What good is wit, what good is beauty between four walls — I seem to be in my very tomb!⁶” And I dissolve in tears at seeing myself so pretty, at seeing my divine arms and throat.

“Better to stifle children at the moment of their birth,” I say through my tears, “than to martyrise them as you martyrise me! What are you made of? Wood? Marble? Does it not affect you at all to see me tearing myself apart?”

“But what can we do!”

“What can you do! What do others do? Ah! you are wretches, the lot of you! Everyone thinks of their children — and you! It matters little to you that I weep, that I suffer, that I rot! I will not rot — I will not, I will not, I will not! Do you hear me!”

“Where is the money to come from!”

“Why money? Being in society costs nothing — does Bihovetz cost you dear? Does Pépino cost you dear? The others will cost no more! My God, my God!”

I beg you — do not laugh, you who will never read this diary. If you were in my place you would understand me and weep as I weep. I am seventeen! For four years they have told me: Wait — when you are grown everything will change. I have waited; I am grown. I am seventeen! I am rotting away — I, who want to live at a run, I who have the fever of life, I who would like to absorb everything, to invade everything, to be everywhere — I am chained, hidden, alone, miserable! God, God, God, God, God! I find no other word but that one. God! God!

God! Hear me then. God, have mercy on me!

God, turn toward the most wretched of Thy creatures. God, be good. God, be merciful! God, be not always the God of vengeance and punishment. O Holy Virgin Mary and Jesus — pray God for me!