Wednesday, August 17, 2011

August 17th, 1781

Today I sailed from Venice for Marseille again, leaving behind the husband it took me so long to attain. No word from France means that I must return to try and find out why he has not yet been exonerated. Very likely it is only that little official business is being transacted while the court is it at Fountainbleau, but Thierry must have work to have wages. Some of his colleagues at the Ferme have been generous in sending help, for Thierry is well-liked wherever he goes, but it is not enough to keep him in any sort of style so we have had to move him to more humble lodgings.

I loathe the idea of returning to Paris where my failed marriage plans with the Marquis only a few months ago are likely to follow me in whispers. I fled in such a hurry the last time I was there that there are certain to be some people who feel rather slighted. I shall play the injured party (after all, it was technically the Marquis who called off the wedding), and pretend that it was in embarassment that I left.

The Mediterranean is calm and blue and it soothes my cares considerably, even as my heart aches for my husband with whom I have had so little time. He promises to write to me often, and will address his letters to "Mme Duverger". I am tired of travel already, and still there is so far to go. Venice to Marseille, Marseille to Saint Saturnin, Saint Saturnin to Riom (for I must make peace with Maman), and finally Riom to Paris. I envy the peasants who may marry and settle into a life of quiet industry. So little to concern them.

Olympe, Comtesse

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