It's a cool afternoon here, at Saint Saturnin, and apart from the incessant barking of the dog who has spotted some deer, all is quiet and peaceful. My guest is resting, having been overcome by a terrible headache which caused her to excuse herself for most of the day. I had already begun to dress for dinner when I was informed that she would not be joining me, so here sit I having eaten much more finely attired than I would bother to be on my own, and I have directed that something be taken up to her.
No word from the Chevalier, although I know I had informed him that we were to come away to Saint Saturnin. I am impatient for news, of him, of his affections, and of Versailles itself. Part of the chateau is in desperate need of repointing and the rain this winter will only damage it more if it is not done soon, but the money I was forced to pay upon leaving Versailles has rather limited my resources for such things at present. Hard as it is, it may just have to wait until Spring.
There is a pageant play in the village tomorrow and if Emilie is well again then I shall suggest that we sneak down to see it. There is little enough other entertainment at the moment, but then I never do come away to this place in search of frivolity but rather to escape the world. It has served me well in this regard since I came into my majority. We may hunt some, it is the best season for it after all, though that has never been a favorite past time of mine the way it is for some. There will be cards, certainly, as we have been doing every day for the past few weeks. Walks in the gardens, though here they are not so grand as in Riom and the weather is cooler here by the day already. We might paint, in which case I must ask to have my paints found and brought out as it has been some time since I last used them here. I should think, in fact, that they will need entirely replaced. Ah, another expense.
I cannot help but muse on the wisdom of the heart. The autumn has always made me introspective, but this year it does so greatly. My heart tells me such contradictory things; that I am cared for, perhaps even deeply, but also that this love is fleeting and not to be trusted. That I must trust in order to be met with trust in return, and also that I must take care and divest myself of feelings which will only harm me in times to come. I wonder how much this owes to the chevalier being so far away and for a time we know not how long to expect. I think of his expressions, sometimes cold, dismissive almost, but also of the great tenderness of which he is capable. Why pursue me if I am not truly wanted? Why so avidly flee my company unless I am not? I do not think Auvergne is to his liking, he has as much as said so already, but Paris is not always to mine. Perhaps my heart wishes me to understand that in love there may be much to overcome. I thought this a lesson I had well learned already. Perhaps it wishes me to understand that love may not overcome ourselves, however much we may hope to. I do not think I may count hope a friend in my life, it has betrayed me too many times. There are moments when I would as well I had no heart at all.
-Olympe
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