It is two weeks now since I wrote my name Ambrosine de Calincourt Athelstan for the last time, two weeks since I walked down the rose-strewn guillotine steps on Augustus’s arm, two weeks since he—­Ah, no!  I will never look back at that.  Let these hideous two weeks sink into the abyss of oblivion!

It hardly seems possible that in fifteen days one could so completely alter one’s views and notions of life.  I cannot look at anything with the same eyes.  It is all very well for people to talk philosophy, but it is difficult to be philosophical when one’s every sense is being continually froisse.  I feel sometimes that I could commit murder, and I do not know when I shall be able to take the Marquis’s advice to remain placid and shut my eyes and try to get what good out of life I can.

Augustus as a husband is extremely unpleasant.  I hate the way his hair is brushed—­there always seems to be a lock sticking up in the back; I hate the way he ties his ties; I hate everything he says and does.  I keep saying to myself when I hear him coming, “remember the caterpillar, caterpillar, caterpillar.”  And once in the beginning, when I was screwing up my eyes not to see, he got quite close before I knew and he heard me saying it aloud.

He bounced away, thinking I meant there was one crawling on him, and then he got quite cross.

“There are no caterpillars here, Ambrosine.  How silly you are!” he said.

He revels in being at once recognized as a bridegroom.  He has dreadfully familiar ways and catches hold of my arm in public, making us both perfectly ridiculous.  He has insisted upon buying me numbers of gorgeous garments for my outer covering, but when I ventured to order some very fine other things he grumbled at the cost.

“I don’t mind your getting clothes that will show the money I’ve put into them,” he explained, “but I’m bothered if I’ll encourage useless extravagance in this way.”

At the play he never understands more than a few words, but is always asking me to explain what it means when there is anything interesting, so I miss most of it myself from having to talk, and some of the French plays are really very funny, I find, and have opened my eyes a great deal, and I—­even I—­could laugh if I were left in peace to listen a little.

Augustus is furiously angry, too, when the Frenchmen look at me.  I never thought I could even notice the gaze of strangers, but I am ashamed to say that last night it quite pleased me.

We were dining at Paillard’s, and two really nice-looking Frenchmen had the next table.  They looked at me, and Augustus glared at them and fussed the waiters more than usual, and wanted to hurry me as much as possible to get away; so I asked for other dishes and peaches and nectarines and things out of season.  At last, when I had dawdled quite an extra half-hour, it came to an end, and the usual sums on the margin of the bill began—­Augustus