Monday, 7 February 1876

God, what weather! One moment it is clear and the sun shows itself; the next it hails and great pieces fall from the sky that are neither hail nor snow but something of their own peculiar kind.
We have letters from Nice.
My aunt has seen Danis, who sends me his most humble salutations and spoke of me as always — with a kind of respectful admiration mixed with a certain stupefaction.
The walls of my room are already hung — so that on my return I shall find everything in its place. At last! Oh, let us not rejoice too soon — some malicious spirit lies in wait to spoil my pleasure.
The great day has passed — Vigier has sung. Ah, I keep repeating the same thing. Despite the detestable weather we stroll on the Corso, and I see the little one following us in a carriage. Could this man and Soroka not be one and the same person? He has a slightly yellow complexion; Soroka does not look like that — and yet he resembles him. The difference in colouring is perhaps due to gaslight. If this man is not Soroka, then where is the real Soroka? We should have seen him at least once by day. If this man is Soroka... no, Soroka is better-looking — they all resemble one another here, it is a pity. In any case, Soroka is handsomer than this little one, and if Soroka is not Soroka — bigre, I am getting confused.
At the moment we alight from the carriage at the hotel entrance I see the little one — what shall I call him? — let us say petit Soroka, and his Galula, watching us go in.
At once we sit down to table, and the two men station themselves in the middle of the square and look up at our windows. Maman, Dina, and the others were already laughing — but I, more prudent, and fearing to excite myself over two faquins perhaps (for I was not certain these two men were the same as those at the hotel entrance), sent Léonie across to a shop opposite, instructing her to examine these two persons carefully and come back and describe them to me. Léonie returns and describes petit Soroka — "They are perfectly comme il faut gentlemen," she says. And just at that moment the face of one of them is lit by a lighted cigar, and I recognise the little one.
From that moment, we do nothing but go to the windows, spy from behind the shutters, laugh, and make witticisms about these two wretches exposed there to the rain, the wind, and the snow. It was six o'clock when we came in, and these two angels have the patience to remain beneath our windows until a quarter to eleven. Dina has not ceased watching them through the blinds — perhaps even too visibly, for they ended by posting themselves beneath my window and looking upward. But what legs one must have to stand thus for nearly five hours.
[Blacked-out words: We were already alarmed] by nine in the evening, saying they would catch cold — and Dina ran from her window to announce that both are so sniffling they blow their noses on the same handkerchief. They execute all manner of manoeuvres, and petit Soroka goes to lean against the wall beneath my window, sitting half on his umbrella. They no doubt heard the shutters creak open, then our running between the rooms and our stifled laughter. Lola knocked over an entire table — basins, water-jugs, etc., etc. — a thorough cold bath. But Dina had begun to show herself too much, and as I like nothing vulgar, I immediately closed all the shutters — besides, it was nearly eleven o'clock, and our Lindors went away.
While they kept that patient watch, Maman was recounting the Audiffret story to Domenica — rounding it out, embellishing it. And I grew so agitated during this conversation as to cut my finger. Though allowing myself, through weakness and vanity, to be a little deceived by phrases I know better than anyone, I ended by saying to Domenica that all of it was stupid — that the young man wanted to make me fall in love with him and that I wanted to make him fall in love with me — [blacked-out words: so it] could not go on long like that. It was amusing to hear the summary of the whole story (old and sacred as it is?).
The fact is that the Surprising One did pose for me — he even wore my colours. Why the devil did it all go so ill at the critical moment? But he never stayed five hours on end beneath my window, in bitter cold with rain and snow on his head.
All this is very well, and before retiring I raise my eyes to heaven, with the most gentle and pious expression I can muster, and pronounce these words:
— My God, I promise to devote the first thousand francs that are truly my own to hiring men who will beat Audiffret with sticks.
For you see, Audiffret is the greatest scoundrel on earth — even before knowing me he was already tormenting me in every possible way.
Everything in him is calculation — everything measured in advance, everything done for a purpose; everything preceded by a malicious thought. Nothing sincere, nothing good. One must seek in him neither a sense of honour nor frankness. Calculation, caprice, malice, and vanity.
My own character to the life.
And it is that character which pleases the most. As for me, I do not know how to love plain goodness and rectitude, for all that I do them justice. I must have vice. Fie!

Notes

Galula: Marie's private code-name for an eligible bachelor of suitable social quality; here applied to the companion of the man she is calling petit Soroka.
Lindor: the stock name for a gallant suitor in 18th-century comedy (from Beaumarchais's The Barber of Seville); used ironically here.