Monday, 29 May 1876

If you think Audiffret amuses me, you are mistaken.
What a wretched day. I could have received a letter by now, and I have not. I said the same about the telegram, and the telegram arrived the evening we departed — Maman wrote to tell me so from Rome. I drag myself from room to room like a shadow. Collignon's portrait consumed three hours, and afterwards I kept to my room; I cannot bear anyone near me, and I cannot speak — my throat aches and my voice is quite gone.
Until this evening the idea of a letter kept my spirits up a little, but tonight anxiety overtakes me — more than anxiety — and I find myself wondering why nothing ever succeeds for me. This is no idle whim. Setting aside my reflections and calculations, consider whether I am not to be pitied: no letter, no news whatsoever, utterly alone in Nice, bored, feeling the weight of our solitude and our standing!
I gave permission to write to me — I thought I had bestowed a supreme favour — and they do not even avail themselves of it!
It would be time to grow accustomed to the way Fate, Providence, God — call it what you will — treats me.
My chest aches.
Ah! My God, forgive my frivolous words — see what I have become! Dull eyes, a pale face, a tormented chest.
Once my dressing gowns arrive, I shall begin going out every morning, for as things stand I risk becoming anaemic and plain — plain, just when I am going to Russia, just when I need to look my best.
So this time too it was nothing but a joke! He does not write!
But one cannot believe in anything! It is perfectly simple — he has deceived me. No! It is his parents who... Yes. But my situation is degrading, and I rage at finding myself here, lamenting, tormented and wretched!
No one can or should know my secret thoughts — only that this man asked for my hand and that I consented.
And look! Oh! Am I not humiliated enough! On Saturday he received my flower — he could have answered me by now... God, am I not wretched enough — so wretched I cannot even find words for it!