heart is torn, but it is not true; my heart is whole, my mind is embittered, and deceptions destroy man. Let us surround our hearts with triple brass. I will trouble myself no more about this man. I will no longer think of him, I will no longer speak of him as before, I forbid myself to do it.

October 24th, 1875.

I boasted of my conduct yesterday; there was no reason for it; if I appeared indifferent it was because I was indifferent. These people don't know how to talk; the Arts, history, one doesn't even hear their names. I feel that I am gradually growing stupid. I am doing nothing. I want to go to Rome—to take up my lessons again. I am bored. I feel myself being gradually enveloped in the spider's web which covers everything here, but I am struggling, I am reading.

At the theatre P—— with R——, her good friend, as they say in Nice, began to yawn when she saw all the people in our box.

Why do women yawn when they are jealous and curious? My mother has noticed it a hundred times, and I, too, in my short life.

Wretched feminine position! Men have all the privileges, women have only that of waiting their good pleasure.

I should be quite proud if I could make myself really loved by this man.

Wild, reckless, ruined, vicious, fickle, brutalised by association with wicked women! His feelings of delicacy, of true love, of virtue, which are the bloom of the human heart, have been early swept away from him. The desire for money holds the first place, money to lead a gay life, to support the riffraff he has in his train.

How much women are to be pitied! It is the man who first takes notice, it is the man who asks to be introduced, it is the man who makes the first advances, it is the man who gives the invitation to dance, it is the man who pays attention, it is the man who offers marriage. The woman is like this paper, this nice paper on which we write whatever we please. God does not hear me, yet I will not doubt God. Often a desire to do it seizes possession of me, but I am very quickly punished.

Pshaw! Life is an ugly thing!

Before dinner we went to walk, it was wonderful moonlight. I said a thousand foolish things to O——, and if Dina and M—— were as crazy as we, a great scandal would have happened, for we wanted to dance a ring around a priest who was passing.

O—— is writing a novel, it appears. After dinner we went in search of her; I shut myself up with her, and the good girl read it. But at the second page I stopped her and proposed that we should write one together. I gave the idea, everything, everything, and the girl imagines she is composing too. It would be the story of Dumas with the Tour de Nesle, but I shall not assert my rights, I am giving her a love scene for to-morrow. She makes no pretensions, and asks for ideas, details, and love scenes with perfect simplicity.

As for me, I set to work and, at one dash, wrote the first chapter, in which my hero bursts open a door and leaps through the window.

People are doing me the honour to busy themselves very much about me, to gossip a great deal over me. Haven't I always desired it?

My journal is suffering because I have begun to write a novel, and I shall succeed. Thank Heaven, I am capable of doing everything I wish. Two chapters in two days is going on finely. I have read it to Dina, and my story interests her. But I am able to judge for myself personally, and I believe it will go.

While we were walking, surrounded by a group of young men, I was happy, proud, and of what? I am little and vain; I took good care to express a wish to return to the carriage, before my cavaliers desired to leave. They even begged me to take another turn. That was all right. They escorted me to the landau.

Monday, November 15th, 1875.

All day long the day of the opera I was restless.

At half past eight o'clock we set off. I was dressed in a white muslin gown, a plain skirt with a wide ruche around the bottom, Marie Stuart waist, and hair arranged to match the costume. A very pretty auditorium. Everybody admired me. Toward the middle of the entertainment, I began to feel as lovely as possible. In going out I passed between two rows of gentlemen who stared at me till their eyes bulged, and they didn't think me bad-looking, one could see that. My heart swelled with pride and joy. Léonie came to undress me, but I sent her away and shut myself up. As I entered I suddenly saw myself in the glass. I looked like a queen, a portrait that had come down from its frame. I no longer had to say: "Ah! if I dressed as people used to do—" I was dressed as people used to do. I was beautiful.

It always seems as if others did not see me as I am. How unfortunate that, instead of these little black letters, I could not trace my portrait as I was—my wonderful complexion, my golden hair, my eyes so dark at night, my mouth, my figure! Those who saw me know how I looked.

While remaining simple, as suits one of my age, barely beyond childhood, I was gowned like a grown person. That is where the difficulty lies—to be like a grown person and yet not extravagant and overdressed.

Later I felt very unhappy and began to sing: "Knowst thou the land?" and fell on my knees, weeping. Why? It is a relief to lie on the ground. Because, in the last scene, a love scene, P—— had in her voice—it gave one a thrill—I would die for the truth—and joyfully.

This is it, he who slays with the sword shall perish by the sword.

It seems as if I had loved. I feel in despair; I don't know why, but it was a torturing feeling and made me weep.

Tuesday, November 16th, 1875.

I left Nice to-day with my aunt, I was ready to cry every instant.

"Do you want a pillow?" she asked.

"No."

"Are you ill?"

"No."

"But you look so pale."

"I am tired."

"You must be ill; where do you feel pain?"

"Everywhere!—Come, Aunt, don't disturb me, I am composing."

"Ah!"

"Oh! there is nothing like the rolling of a carriage to give ideas."

"Aha! That's different; well, well, I didn't know."

And she left me to compose at my ease. Then, after a silence:

"Why did A—— turn so pale when P—— began to sing: 'Knowst thou the land?'"

"How could you have seen? For my part, I can never notice whether a person turns pale or blushes."

"Yes, you, because you can't see at a distance, but I can. He turned as white as a sheet when she sang: 'There would I fain live!'"

"I saw nothing."

Wednesday, November 17th, 1875.

Many things have changed since Monday. I don't wish to die, no matter where and no matter how, and I have since been ashamed of myself. I meant to trifle with the man, and it seems as if the man was trifling with me. This insult, joined to the wrath I feel for my weakness Monday, makes me detest him.

At six o'clock we arrived without having secured any accommodations at the Grand Hotel, so we took rooms at the Hôtel Splendide.

"Is it worth while to choose for a hero a miserable Nice scamp like that A——?" said my aunt, "and to write a lot of stuff about him?"

Certainly my aunt understands nothing of the matter, and that is very fortunate. I do think of him, and yet if he loved me, I would not consent to be his wife. No one in the household considered him a suitable match. They noticed him because I was interested in him. They talked about him because they saw it gave me pleasure, yet if I said I wanted to marry him they would think me crazy, would raise a loud outcry, for they are dreaming of a throne for me. So I don't want to marry him. I only say I am jealous; that is why I am going to Rome. If I stayed in Nice I could not work; I should only torment myself. Since knowing him, since he has paid me attention, my studies have suffered greatly,