March 28, 1780

The weather has turned cold again. I do wish it would pick a temperature and stick to it, but I suppose the seasons are interesting. At times like these I miss Auvergne where I have only to look out of my window to see the buds on the trees, and need not seek out a public garden or the orangerie at Sully to find them. I have, nonetheless, grown quite fond of this, my town home.

A letter from T- is full of love and longing. It has been some months since we last saw each other, and the distance does wear on the heart. We strain towards May when at last we may be together again, and I'm sure it is part of the reason why I so ferverently desire the advent of spring. I'm also glad that it's the end of Lent, as the last thing one wants when one has been ill is to eat fish.

Reinette is doing quite well, and insists on sitting on my lap as I write. Someone from the kitchen has given her a bone and she chews it with singular attention. I am happy to report that she seems to be getting over her tendency to defile the carpets, and has learned to use a small bell-pull to alert whoever is nearby that she must go out. Maman, hearing that I had been ill, came up to Paris two days ago and remains at Sully. She delights in the puppy to the extent that it is almost unseemly, and I fear Reinette will be quite spoiled before long. If Maman does not acquire a pet of her own soon I will be very much surprised.

Today I go to pick fabrics for a new gown, and I think something for T-. Tonight there is a dinner party at Comtesse de R's to celebrate my recovery. Fortunately I have a new yellow gown to wear. If I had not ruined my yellow silk slippers in the mud that one time outside of Paris they would have been the perfect compliment to the dress.

Olympe, Comtesse