March 9th, 1781

F- has returned to attending my Lever, and Maman has had me busier than I could have even imagined with wedding preparations. We argue constantly about the most trivial matters of dishes to serve, guests to be invited or not invited, and even the color of my gown. I favor a blue, but she insists I would look best in a peach, which is a color I abhor. I told her quite bluntly that I would not wear such a thing, and yet she invited a marchande to show us her wares with emphasis on "warm, bright, colours". I look best in cool, silvery pastels, but she does believe she knows best.

I try to be understanding, and I know that I am her only daughter, so she must have been dreaming of this for so long; far longer, in fact, than most since I am old to be getting married for the first time. Still, it galls me that she takes liberties with sending my servants on errands without discussing the choices with me first.

I must endure it, I suppose. I should prefer something small and private, but both F-'s family and mine would never allow it. It still feels like a dream to me, unreal, as if I will wake up any moment to find myself younger, with R- alive and T- by my side, as in days past.

Olympe, Comtesse