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.