One could not imagine my impatience to go to Rome and resume my work.  To study, to study, that is my desire!  I grow joyous at the sight of my dear books, my adored classics, my beloved Plutarch.

I shall carry with me a few volumes to read, for I suppose we shall not see many people; we know no one there.

Saturday, December 11th, 1875.

The weather is magnificent.  A tremendous crowd when we go out.  We move at a walk, between hedges formed of the young men of Nice.  They all take off their hats, and it seems as if I were the daughter of a queen whom they salute as she passes.

We met the Marvel, who alighted from his carriage and raised his hat to us twice.  I was amused, I laughed, I went with O——.  Why did we laugh so much?  I shall remember later.

Sunday, December 19th, 1875.

To-morrow there is to be a concert at the Cercle de la Mediterranee for the benefit of the free Ecole des beaux-arts.  I went to the club to get tickets.  Entering through the big door I was ushered through well-heated, well-lighted corridors to the room of the secretary, who gave me the little book containing the by-laws and the names of the members.  Men are lucky!

The club made a charming impression upon me.  There is a fraternity of spirit a homelike air, which reminds one of the convent.  I am no longer surprised that these men avoid their badly lighted, poorly heated homes, with household cares neglected, ill-disciplined servants, a wife in a wrapper and a bad humour, to go to a place where everything is nice, comfortable, elegant (in a land where the orange tree blossoms, where the breeze is softer and the bird swifter of wing).

O women, don’t pity yourselves, but attend to your homes.

Long instructions might be given.  I am content to say:  “Make your house resemble a club as much as possible and treat your husbands as these ladies, L——­and C——­, treat them, and you will be happy and your husbands too.”

Now I am calm and I think.  O misery of miseries!  O despair!  What I have written expresses the best portion of what I feel.  O God, have pity on me.  Good people, do not jeer at me.  Perhaps I give cause for amusement, but I am to be pitied.  With my temperament, my ideas, I shall never explain what I feel.  I shall never give an idea of my unhappiness, it is because while dying of shame, of scorn, of rage, I have the courage to jest.  I really do have good health and a good disposition.  Provided that what I have just said doesn’t bring me misfortune!

I have a great many other things to say, but I am tired.  I am going to write in big letters, “I am unhappy,” and in letters still larger, “O God, aid me, have pity on me!”

These big letters represent an hour and a half of rage, tears, irritated self love, and two hours of prayer!

I have exhausted all words, I have exhausted my energy, I no longer have patience or strength, yet I still have one resource.