Thursday, 13 July 1876

I received Rémy dressed from head to foot as a Capuchin friar. Yes, a Capuchin; Caroline made me the costume, cord and hood included. Rémy is a man — I cannot get used to it; I treat him as I did six years ago. He took my hand and kissed it, and at that moment I understood that I must not, in play, turn the head of this poor boy who has done me no harm; but I did not know what to say, and suddenly my madness came back to me: it seemed to me that I was behaving like a cocotte! Oh! if you knew how dreadful it is! I sat for Valery with that idea in my head; then at the table d’hôte it seemed to me that people were looking at me with contempt, with anger, saying to themselves: how dare that one sit down with respectable people!
Next to us was the young man who followed us yesterday from Mellerio’s, where we had gone to leave some diamonds to be set; he was with his mother, no doubt, but as they kept talking the whole time, the idea came to me that she was one of those old women who... and that the man had called her in to... Oh!... Oh!
You can imagine the state I was in! I begged my aunt to go and spend the evening at de Mouzay’s; I could not settle anywhere. The good Countess is lodging with the Baronne de Mertens, a ruined lady who keeps a sort of boarding house for friends.
We settled in a small separate drawing room: de Mouzay, the mistress of the house and her sister. I talked, I recited verses — the verses on Girofla * — I sang, I told everything that could possibly be told; in short, had it been at a public meeting they would have carried me off in triumph. The ladies laughed, marvelled, were moved, admired. De Mouzay was indignant about our settling in Nice.
“It is a hole,” she said. “What a narrow horizon, what pettiness! Whereas Paris, with your fortune, and then with this child here...”
“But, Madame,” I said, “it is very difficult for foreigners to get into Paris society.”
“Not at all! With only three friends to make your salon for you — one in finance, one in the aristocracy, one in the arts — you would have a salon such as few people have; and then, you understand, ladies, with this child, this child who is beautiful, who above all is so well educated, and that is so rare — look at those dreadful American girls! She is so well educated, so witty, with such originality, such spirit, such verve, such conversation — why, within a year she would be leading Paris society... Oh! but it is true. Oh! but I am telling you, you would be right in the heart of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, you would make a splendid marriage.”
“But, Madame, the people of the Faubourg Saint-Germain rarely marry foreign women...”
“No, of course, those who are very rich mostly marry among themselves, but out of caprice, my dear... out of caprice...”
“Ah! no,” I said, leaning back on the chaise longue, “it is difficult, and besides, I want to become a singer. You see, dear Countess, this is what we must do. You will disguise yourself... no, you will stay as you are, but I shall disguise myself as a poor girl, and you will take me to the foremost singing master in Paris, as a little Italian girl under your protection, in whom several people take an interest and who shows promise as a singer.”
“Oh! oh!”
“Ah! ha!”
“And so,” I went on calmly, “it is the only way to find out the truth about my voice.”
“Indeed... why yes, it is an excellent idea.”
“And I have a little dress from last year that will do wonders!” I said, pursing and then pouting my lips.
What do you say to that, you confounded readers?
I stayed there until ten o’clock. I felt somewhat ill at ease, for I was too much in evidence; my aunt, so to speak, did not exist. What Mme de Mouzay said seemed possible to me, so assured was she; but once home I lay down on the sofa, crushed by the horrible idea that on my return from Russia nothing would have changed and I would begin the same life all over again. Oh! it is horrible.
My father telegraphs that he is at Orel but will be at home when I arrive. Étienne telegraphs that he is ready to come and fetch me. Alexandre telegraphs that there is cholera in Russia.
Ah! the wretched thief! But I fear nothing. I am not a fatalist; I do not believe that everything is written in advance, but I firmly believe that nothing happens without the will of God, and if God wants me to die now, nothing can prevent it, whereas if He has a long life in store for me, no epidemic in the world will do me any harm.
Antonelli has received my telegram and — who knows? — in summer perhaps he does not go to the Club; it will take a chance for him to go there and find my fine missive. Will he even write to me?
Really, I am a fine one! It is he who loves, and I who play his part! It is shameful!
It is I who think about it, who send him telegrams! I do not know how to conduct myself... No — Merjeevsky followed me to Ostend, he came to Nice twice, without my having done anything to bring it about. Bruschetti would have followed me to the ends of the earth. Antonelli is of a different character, or in different circumstances, and I act accordingly. What do the means matter, so long as one gets there!
But I must find out whether he loves me. So I am going to make sure of it. And if he is not in Rome?... They will always forward my telegram to him. Well... we shall see!
Only I beg God to spare me a dreadful humiliation.
My God, I beseech You!
My aunt begs me to go to bed, for it is one o’clock.
“Leave me alone,” I said to her. “If you pester me I shall go mad — I have told you it could easily happen. I shall do something dreadful or throw myself out of the window. Leave me alone.”
My God! What ideas are troubling me still!
Paris — yes, Paris, the centre of wit, of glory, of everything. Paris, light, vanity... vertigo!
My God, give me the life I want, have pity on me, forgive me!
My God... or make me die!