I dress in white as usual — all new and lovely as two hearts — but we go out a little late, for Barnola and Varpahovsky were with us, and we walked in the garden in magnificent sunshine.

On the Promenade, I see a handsome boy resembling Audiffret but with a more innocent face — and he bows to me. Thinking he has made a mistake, we pay no attention; the second encounter, a second bow; a third encounter and a third bow! We then turn the carriage around to see who the man is — we see him but do not recognise him. Then my aunt exclaims: "It is Miloradovitch!" Picture my agitation.

I order the coachman to follow him; I say a hundred foolish things while clutching my heart, and at the Avenue de la Gare I order a stop, with the intention of speaking to the man to find out who he is. But just as we are about to stop he vanishes. Thinking he has entered the Hôtel des Îles Britanniques, we go there — but the concierge answers that there is no one of the name of Miloradovitch in the hotel. Then, entirely flustered and talking greater nonsense than ever, I return home. Giro with us. I am like a madwoman, and I have a terrible desire to recount this adventure to everyone; I seize Collignon and tell her about it with the most extravagant exclamations. If it truly were Miloradovitch! But now I think: how could he have recognised us? After almost six years' absence — I was eleven, he was fifteen! My aunt and Dina are the same, it is true, and then so many of my photographs have been sent to Paul! But no — it is impossible! And yet that man resembles him; I can now make him out vaguely, he resembles him greatly — he also resembles the Surprising One, but his nose is less long.

"My dear," I say to Giro, "he is a perfect Bibi — only he looks too innocent; he would need a little vice dans la figure."

"As for that," she replies, "he has only to borrow some from someone of my acquaintance!"

"Yes — and of mine too!"

No, truly — I am very intrigued, very intrigued.

Giro goes home. We go to the Opera — my aunt, Dina, and I — in Marie Stuart dress.

I go with the hope of seeing the unknown there. I am not expressing myself well because I have drunk champagne — of which more below.

First, the Opera. No Léon! Sadness! Half the evening Barnola is in our box, the other half the immense Pépino. And for these wretched escorts the Howards opposite feel uncomfortable!

I listened to Mignon with pleasure and tenderness; I forgot everything — dress and audience — and with my head leaning against the column I devoured these charming melodies. If they gave me Mignon in my room I should enjoy it just as much — more, even. With an interesting audience one hears nothing. I have seen this opera so many times and each time I am moved. The scene where the gypsy wants to beat Mignon, "Connais-tu le pays..."? — the fire, and the last scene — always seem new to me and give me, each time, four distinct emotions. I understand so well the anger, the jealousy, and the tears of Mignon — and Pasqua plays and sings so beautifully. I adore Mignon: it is the most charming, the most entertaining, the most tender and the most adorable of operas.

I return home quite in love. They tell me it is with Audiffret — so be it; I must be in love with someone; if it falls on Audiffret, so much the better for him.

The fact is that for me now, to be handsome one must resemble the Surprising One. But no — it is the influence of Mignon, and nothing else.

Maman returns from Monaco and brings the general — and we sup as best we can on the leftovers from dinner and champagne until two o'clock. That is why I am not expressing myself well.

If someone wanted to tell it in a bad light! Madame returns at midnight with a gentleman and the young ladies sup until two o'clock on champagne — and yet it was so innocent, so simple, so perfectly correct in every detail.

The gaslight had first dazzled me and my eyes watered — my aunt says I wept; I let her say so and do not take offence.

If it truly were Miloradovitch — the cards have predicted for me with such insistence a king of marriage with a great deal of money. But no — Paul would have written, Alexandre would have written. Who then is this man? So long as he is not an opera tenor!