Thursday, 12 April 1877

I dreamt that Larderel’s daughter was a cat.
I am so sad that Rosalie comes and tells me silly things to cheer me up, and the efforts of that good girl make me sadder still. All I can answer her is:
— I miss Monsieur le comte — with a melancholy that strikes me as comic and is in fact dismal.
Yes, it is true, I miss Monsieur le comte. The plan in question — which you will learn of only when it is carried out, if that moment ever comes — absorbs me.
Yes, well, yes, I miss M. le comte.
I have grown thin, as after an illness; I looked pretty on the Promenade. In the evening we had young Naples — Caracciolo, Porcinari, Zunica, Santasiglia and… Melissano. And Marcuard, of course. Just imagine, there was dancing. I shall never forget Melissano dancing the tarantella with his pocket handkerchief for a Pompeian scarf.
Larderel was so handsome when I saw him for the first time after the duel… Oh, well! perhaps it is better this way… besides, what is this notion of love — and unhappy love at that? Fie!
Melissano says he arrives tomorrow. I have not the least idea what countenance he will put on, which worries me a great deal.
As for me… I shall make fun of him and laugh in his face over his all-too-prudent declaration… yes, if he comes close enough to give me the chance.
But have you noticed that I foretell, that I foresee all my misadventures! They make me look ridiculous, in the end! Because I speak only of misfortunes, leaving aside the little triumphs, which do not interest me, especially at the moment.
I am thinking seriously about this business; the thing is, you see, I should be so happy to… ah! ha! Enough. Let us not betray our secret.

Notes

In Italian in the original: Basta. ↩