Sunday, 19 December 1875

Collignon seriously alarms me by assuring me that he knows where these letters come from. The last one is abominable — and if he knows it is from me... I am very, very anxious.
I was at church with Dina; the day is grey. On the Promenade I am greatly afraid of encountering Audiffret — it seems to me that he knows, and you must understand my dread.
But his bow is as usual, and I breathe more freely. It was that Collignon who frightened me.
I said I wanted to attend the next afternoon party. I am answered with tears that it is impossible — we know no one, we are attached by no bond to society — it is impossible.
Maman dissolves in tears; seeing which, I restrain myself and say nothing. Not that I claim any credit for it — if I said nothing, it was because I was weary, weary, weary!
Princess Galitzine has sent us sweets and Russian things through the Countess Galenichtchev-Kutuzov, who called on Maman today. Poor Princess — she was already accused in advance of forgetfulness, of ingratitude. It is not her sweets that please me but the kindness of the attention. I always defended her: she is a charming woman, well-born, well-married — and her blood is not the blood of a low creature.
As soon as dusk falls and the Promenade empties I let myself go. I close my eyes and weep.
Tomorrow there is a concert at the Cercle de la Méditerranée for the benefit of the free School of Fine Arts — I go to the Cercle to collect tickets. I entered through the main door, then was conducted through a kind of antechamber and corridor — well-heated, well-lit — to reach the secretary, who gave me the little booklet containing all the rules, the members' names, and so on.
How fortunate these men are.
The Club made a charming impression on me — there reigns in it a fraternity, a sense of home, that recalls a convent. I am no longer surprised that these gentlemen flee their ill-lit, ill-heated, neglected houses — the domestic drudgery, the undisciplined servants, the wife in her dressing-gown and ill-temper — for a place where everything is well-ordered, calm, comfortable, elegant. In a land "where the orange tree blossoms, where the breeze is gentler and the bird more light."
Oh, women! — do not complain, but attend to your households. One might give lengthy instructions; I content myself with saying: Make your home as closely as possible resemble a club, and treat your husbands as Mesdames Laura, Clémence, Maria, and so forth would treat them — and you will be happy, and your blasted husbands too.
Loftus already seems to me less beautiful — he was in a carriage with Leech. I am jealous.
To attend the afternoon party, one needs an invitation from a permanent member. The only one I know is Audiffret — I go to the Opera to ask him for it, to beg him for it. Faugh! I clench my teeth at the thought. And if he refuses? But on what pretext? Am I not worthy to go where everyone goes?
Oh, wretched creature — you go only where one pays, yes, there you will go! Where one pays, where one pays, where one pays. Nowhere else!
And they want me to look fresh — is it possible! I blush deeply when I see Audiffret enter his box with Belle-de-Jour. He is no longer a man to me — he is an afternoon dance.
Galula bores me for two acts and an interval. Audiffret rises and takes his hat.
"There goes Audiffret — off to the Willises'," says Galula.
"Where are they?" I ask, looking around the house.
"Not here — they are receiving this evening at their house."
"A soirée?" I ask, stung.
"Yes — a little informal dance, I believe."
There it is — the blow has struck home. Everyone receives — the Willises, whom I thought so little of, also. We alone, we alone, we alone! It is my nightmare, my misfortune, my approaching death!

MY GOD, COME TO MY AID! HAVE PITY ON ME!

Those large letters represent an hour and a half of lamentations, of anguish, of rage, of tears, of wounded pride — and two hours of prayer.
I have exhausted all words; I have exhausted my energy; I have neither patience nor strength left.
This day shall be the last day so turbulent. I shall be calm; I shall execute the plan that God has suggested to me.
And then I have still one resource — my voice; to preserve it I must spare my health. Another week like today and farewell to singing.
No — I shall be sensible; I shall pray to God. I shall go to Rome. I am desperate — I shall ask the Pope to pray for me. In my madness I hope in that.
Tomorrow I shall speak to Maman of my idea.
Help me, my God!

Notes

"Where the orange tree blossoms...": a quotation from the aria Connais-tu le pays où fleurit l'oranger? ("Knowest thou the land?") from Ambroise Thomas's opera Mignon (1866), sung by the character Mignon yearning for her Italian homeland; here applied by Marie, with gentle irony, to the comfortable world of the gentlemen's club.