I going to write? That I am calm and agitated, sorrowful and joyous,
jealous and indifferent. It seems to me that fastidious society is
possible to have and, at the same time, it is impossible.

"I wish to stay and I wish to go,
How it will end I do not know."

I cannot lie down. I am sorrowful, excited.

Oh, calm yourself, for Heaven's sake. It hasn't anything to do with
M. A----, but simply that I am going. The uncertainty, the
vagueness, leaving the known for the unknown.


Sunday, January 2nd, 1876.

"I shall go Sunday at three o'clock," I said or rather shrieked, and
Sunday at one o'clock everything was topsy-turvy. The trunks were
still empty, and the floor was covered with gowns and finery. For
my part, I put on a grey dress and waited quietly. C---- and Dina
worked, and so well that everything was ready for the hour of
departure.

At half past two, C---- and I got into a little cab and went to hear
the band, and I listened once more to the municipal music of Nice.
"Come," I said to Collignon, "if this piece is gay, our journey
will be, too. I am superstitious." And the piece was very lively. So
much the better!

I saw G----, who bid me good-bye once more. I haven't seen the