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. Leonie 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.