I am so unhappy tonight that I can hardly persuade myself to write. It is not as if something terrible has happened, but rather a pervasive sadness that has been creeping over me. I’m sure the revelation about Msr. Lamotte has something to do with it, but can hardly be blamed as the only cause.
The weather continues very gray, and there was hardly anything today but more play rehearsals. I lost every hand of cards tonight, and retired early from the table to avoid losing more money. The rest of the party left for a ball in town a few hours ago, but I decided I did not feel well enough for it, and have remained behind.
I do not miss Thierry tonight, I thought I might, but found instead that it was the affection he provided which I have been seeking instead. Msr. Lamotte was kinder than he has ever been, as if sensing what I have been feeling and wishing to make things right. I want to be held in someone’s arms, and that he cannot give me. The other reason that I did not attend the ball with the others is that one of the gentlemen, Robert Saint Mikkael, has been showing me rather too much attention; much more so than I would wish, and I would like to discourage him. I cannot seem to have the ones I want, or dissuade the ones I do not want. Nothing is right.
No letters today, and so I remain rather lonely despite the constant company. Could not seem to keep my mind on reading or anything, but only pined and sighed as if I were younger; the thought of which only made me feel worse. I’m afraid that perhaps I do not want to marry Thierry after all, in which case my trip to Versailles may be in search of more than just land. I am tired of showing a pleasant and happy face when inside I am so distraught. I long for the peace of Saint Saturnin where I may be happily alone. I cannot seem to write my sorrow away tonight.