Sunday, 3 June 1877

I am woken by Mmes Rondel and Sirs — the grocer's wife and the woman of independent means from across the way. Dressed to blind me, they bring two bouquets for the fête I am giving this evening.
"These are not gifts, Mademoiselle Marie — it is the love of all of us!"
I have them sit down and remain in bed myself, assuring them that these proofs of sympathy please me a thousand times more than the most beautiful gifts in the world. A little later it is Mademoiselle Raynaud — that is to say Françoise the washerwoman — who brings a bouquet. This young person has for her mother a respectable lady who prevents us from starving to death each time our kitchen revolts, and for her father a magnificent cobbler who has re-soled my mules several times.
At last came Mme Raynaud herself, with her married daughter who is expecting a child of which I am to be godmother and to whom I shall give the name Alexandre or Alexandrine.
Then I opened my white box and took out a journal at random; falling on no. 52, I became disgusted with myself and furious at the cause of that disgust — not furious exactly, but it inspires in me a tolerable contempt, and I hate myself [one line cancelled] for my weakness of that time. People say it often happens that one has a weakness for someone one does not love, and afterwards detests that person towards whom one felt an inclination caused almost always by circumstances, caprice, or idleness. And then one is furious with oneself for having expended oneself so foolishly — just as I am furious each time I find myself doing mechanical work...
[In the margin: One is furious above all because one did not even have an inclination — merely a foolishness caused by the other's love. And one knows there is nothing more irresistible in the world than the love one inspires.] In short, I became utterly wretched, and only a very pleasant surprise managed to soften me. It was a large bouquet of flowers and cherries brought by a magnificent gentleman in a black overcoat, black hat, white trousers and cravat, and delivered in a solemn yet gracious tone:
"Mademoiselle Marie, I come to offer you these flowers on behalf of the entire neighbourhood, and to wish you a happy name-day."
"Monsieur," I replied, "I thank you most warmly, and all those who have had this kind thought. I shall be delighted if this evening succeeds as I hope."
"Mademoiselle Marie, we are... with many thanks," resumed the handsome gentleman, nudging with his elbow someone in a smock, thoroughly grimy, who was hiding in the shadow of the curtain — it was the locksmith, who had slipped in to watch proceedings at close quarters.
And with many bows the man withdrew. I had the four or five bouquets placed on a pedestal table in the red anteroom — the scent would have suffocated me.
Well — this is what one gains by not being proud. They know me, they call me Mademoiselle Marie, and they love me.
This evening I am giving a grand Rossignol in the street, with a lantern painted as Catherine Segurana, as the Republic, with mottoes, candles etc. — and for the chosen few, a dance in the coach-house. Triphon is the grand master of ceremonies. One would need a volume to recount this creature. It is not possible to be more of a cheat, more impudent, more of a joker, more of a Tartuffe...
In three days he has been dismissed three times, and three times Grand-papa has forgiven him. Triphon wept; Monsieur embraced him. From the top of the staircase leading from the coach-house to the servants' floor, I went to watch the dancing. The battle was something to behold — the great gate was under a veritable siege from the people of the rue de France, but Triphon would admit to this coveted retreat only those provided with tickets... There too...
Anne — a sly creature of fifty, thin and puny — was holding the gate; one rash soul who had pushed forward between the panels as they began to give way received so magnificent a slap that it was counted a triumph.
I went back to the dining room, where Bihovetz was; we all went off along the Promenade, hatless — it is always charming in Nice in summer.
Do you know how Mme Kondareff explains her financial ruin — a ruin so complete that I am outraged by all her creditors besieging the house? She owes everywhere, to all the servants, to everyone; and this gets confused with us so that we are compromised for nothing, now that we ourselves have no debts. Well: Madame explains that we have taken all her money — hers and her daughter's — and that she has to hide her little casino winnings from Monaco so that we won't take those too.
Rosalie prevents me from writing by telling me that the cook Joseph Arozzo, who is to start tomorrow, is the very one who married his cousin out of spite. He was in love with a chambermaid who loved him in return — but one fine day she took such a mad passion for M. Audiffret that she shouted it from the rooftops, and Joseph, furious and jealous, married his cousin. A fortnight later Joseph with his young wife and Rosalie with Emile's beloved encountered each other on the Quai Saint-Jean-Baptiste.
"Ah, Mademoiselle, what a scene! They said nothing — but I could see perfectly well what it was."
Indeed — there is matter for a charming story. My ears are worn out with all these below-stairs dramas; if I had the time I would write them up as tales — yes, if I knew how to write well. Some day, perhaps, later, when I have the time.
I have never read a book about servants — I would be perfectly at home with a dictionary, like Rosalie.

Notes

The Rossignol (nightingale) was a traditional Nicois name-day celebration featuring lantern processions in the street.
Catherine Segurana: legendary heroine of Nice, celebrated for her defiant role in repelling the Ottoman-French siege of 1543.