Wednesday, 16 May 1877

I ran about all morning looking for a few trifles that are missing from my anteroom, but in this wretched country one finds nothing. I had to apply to a stained-glass painter, a tinsmith, heaven knows who else.
The thought that my journal will not be interesting, the impossibility of giving it interest by withholding surprises — these things torment me. If I only wrote at intervals I could perhaps... but these daily notes will only find a patient reader in some thinker, some great observer of human nature... Whoever lacks the patience to read all of it will be unable to read any of it, and above all unable to understand anything.
There was only Laurenti at the Skating rink, where I ended up after receiving the visit of Comte Tichkevitch — that eccentric, or rather that buffoon.
Then we went to collect Bihovetz, who has just fallen in love with a lady who left this morning. He cannot live without love — the pure kind; for the impure kind, he finds that in Monaco. I had hoped to marry him off to Collignon, but the old creature doesn't think of it in the least, and as for the young woman, the desire for marriage has become a mania — which rather astonishes me in a woman who had so much tact, wit, and manner. People change in this world.
My aunt and Mme Kondareff returned at one o'clock; I went to have supper with them.
I love supper — and besides, it is one of the great diversions of Nice.
For some days I have been dreaming of Antonelli, and he comes back to my mind. I never think of him — not at all. It is strange: for him to appear like this in dreams, and to come back during the day without any reason, he must be thinking of me... or something of that sort. It is strange.
I love Alexandre and I live without him — and yes, because I know he does not love me; that is what has cooled me and driven love away.
I understand nothing of it — and provided nothing comes to recall me to golden dreams, to the vanities and ambitions of this world, I am happy in my forgetfulness.