Saturday, 11 December 1875

The water in the fountain basin was still frozen at noon.
I searched vainly in the crowd for my handsome unknown.
De Gonzalès has arrived. The Audiffret house is open, but one does not see him — he is no doubt busy expelling his stepmother from here.
This morning at Maman’s they touched upon my torment.
“My God, Papa,” said my mother, “why do you speak of that — it is the same as tormenting a wound with a red-hot iron!”
They had begun by speaking of marriage, and I said that I would marry at once and with anyone at all, so long as it meant a change.
“But,” said grandfather — as is his habit, without listening to what is being discussed, like a barrel organ slowly wound up — “every mother must endeavour to marry off her daughter as soon as possible.”
“But that is not the point, grandfather!” I say.
“Every mother,” he continued, “must...”
“But that is not what we are talking about!”
“...endeavour to marry off her daughter as soon as possible, for...”
“But please — do understand that that is not the question.”
“For,” he resumed, paying not the slightest attention, “imagine — you, for instance, a little bird — and you shall be surrounded by children.”
“For pity’s sake!” I cried, beside myself.
“Papa,” said my mother, “it is not for that — it is to change her way of life.”
“How so?”
“Yes — to live as everyone else does,” she continued.
“But that depends on you.”
“Oh! no,” I say slowly. “I do not think so — if it depended on them, they would not make me suffer so horribly.”
I give that as a small specimen of our daily conversations.
Pleasant, eh?
There are three unknowns: the one who bowed, another I saw the next day and who is merely not bad, and the handsome one.
This evening we go to the Opera. I shall enjoy myself tolerably — but when I come home I shall weep. That is what the cards say. Let us see if it will be true. Dinner has just been announced.
“Why do you not go to the afternoon dance at the Cercle?” Collignon asks me.
“Because I do not wish to have my bosom and my backside described, as the Robenson girl’s bosom and backside were described.”
Indeed, the Pointed American has been compared to the Venus de Milo. Poor Venus de Milo! Absurd journalist!
Oh the cards — they deserve to be thrown into the fire! Far from weeping, I spent a charming evening. They were giving La Cenerentola; I expected an empty house or nearly so — which is indeed what occurred. By a strange whim, I dressed in blue. A great gown of very pale blue silk, quite plain, with a large ruffle at the bottom of the skirt, the train square-cut. A close-fitting bodice, close-fitting sleeves reaching only to the elbow, the front cut in quite a particular way — neither round, nor square, nor oval; I do not know how to describe it. But the whole effect was ravishing, and I myself am very pretty.
Pépino looks at me from behind a column.
“There is the son!” says my aunt.
“There is Émile,” says Dina.
I see a grey frock coat in box No. 1 — I blush, and begin to ogle a poor innocent girl who had done nothing to me.
My blushes had barely subsided when Pépino entered; my heart was still beating when I said good evening to him.
This nice young Niçois is very droll and most entertaining; we flirt together the whole time; then Ricardo arrives; Pépino wants to escape, but I kindly hold him back. And at the beginning of the last act — after considerable manoeuvring — M. Émile d’Audiffret does us the honour of entering our box.
I did not expect this favour from the illustrious cad — but I received him none the less with admirable simplicity.
Pépino escaped at once — but I had shown sufficiently that he was paying me court, and he could depart in peace.
“I was to call on you this evening, Madame,” he said, “but I thought that leaving a card at nine o’clock in the evening was absurd — and I came to the theatre to see if you were not here, and here you are indeed. No, truly — I do not say it for effect: I speak the truth.”
“I believe you, Monsieur — you are sincere,” I say.
But let us return to the Surprising One, whose visit is a satisfaction for Ricardo — the poor man will have some news to recount: a small thing, but something.
Bibi is as handsome as ever, and his hypocritical lip still pleases me. There is something in his face that attracts. Does he have this effect on everyone, or on me alone?
He says he is coming from Florence. He lies — he has been to Rome to find a tenor.
Wicked Pépino made a great many very amusing cutting remarks about the management of the Opera.
Ricardo goes off “to leave Audiffret the field clear.”
Audiffret had no need of that; he chats very pleasantly with us — but not at all as before. He seems like a person introduced only yesterday, whereas in the early days of our acquaintance he seemed like a friend of ten years.
I prefer the proper tone he takes now.
For a single instant I felt him looking at me, and I had not the strength to keep still — he has eyes that pierce you. But it was only an instant; he looks away as if he were afraid, as if he were doing something wrong.
Thank God, I behaved well. I was perfectly natural on the outside — as on the inside, for that matter — and not a word, not a gesture, not a glance could have given the presumptuous young man any ideas of triumph.
The creature comes when there is no one at the theatre to see him in our box. It is absurd: I want him only for the others.
Not the slightest jolt.
Quite unlike the previous times, not a word is said to him about his coming to our box, he is not invited, and my aunt knows very well how to conduct herself. I should like to go into society with her; she carries herself very well.
In the waiting room Mlle de Gonzalès comes over to greet me.
I have never been into society, I see no one — where the devil did I get my aristocratic manners? Say what they will, it comes from God, and education is only a veneer. I know so well how to speak to everyone, I make such refined distinctions, such imperceptible nuances, that you would take me for a thirty-year-old woman of the world.
I am not flattering myself: ask anyone you like and you will be told it is the truth. Thank God, I know how to judge myself as I judge others.
Fiouloulou, who did not come to the box because of his clothes, joins us in the waiting room and escorts us to the carriage.
They came, and the people who ought to have seen me surrounded were not there. It is absurd, but I am pleased and at peace all the same.
Editors’ note
[Half-page removed]
Consul Patton and his ugly daughters were next to us; I looked them full in the face with the haughtiest air I could muster. Those serpents kept craning their heads forward to see into our box. They, at least, saw — that is a consolation.
Patton, the handsome consul who will one day be cudgelled along with the amiable lord of the manor [Half-page removed] looked me over with a connoisseur’s eye. I was happy to offer him my pretty person as a challenge, as a kind of triumph.
Whatever they may do or say, as long as I am pretty I shall laugh at their gossip and at those mammas with ugly, pretentious daughters who stay babies until the age of twenty-five.
Fiouloulou, who did not come into our box because of his clothes, joins us in the waiting room and sees us back to the carriage. Ah! but I have already said that. Never mind.
I drink my tea as I write, with Victor at my feet.
The warning about Gros has gone off to London, from where Collignon’s brother will forward it to the proper quarter.

Notes

La Cenerentola (Cinderella): opera by Rossini (1817). ↩
flirtons: in English in the original; the English word was fashionable in 1870s French society. ↩
In French in the original: secousse — Marie’s word for the physical thrill she feels at a touch. ↩
In French in the original: châtelain. ↩