More than a year has passed, but not in any idleness. I sit in the most pleasant of company beside a face sweeter than any in the world; that of my infant daughter. One year ago, I discovered that I was enciente, and after a difficult series of negotiations with the Chevalier and his family, we were wed. Thus am I no longer Marquise, and the Chevalier is become Comte d'Auvergne by this union. I had thought he would be disappointed when she revealed herself not to be the wish-for son, but he has been a most devoted father and writes often to me from Paris to ask after his adored daughter, whom we have named Aurelie. To me she is an answered prayer, and I spend each day in awe of her as she grows. Indeed, it seems that I awaken to a new baby each morning.
As for our marriage, the Comte spends his time in Paris attending to family matters while I remain at present in Auvergne, currently in Saint-Saturnin. In two weeks we travel to Riom where my mother will rejoice to be reunited with her only grand-daughter, whom she also adores. Not long will Aurelie remain the sole grandchild, however, as Andre's wife will be delivered of her child sometime in the next month. The Chevalier, as I continue to think of him despite his new title, has two sisters, both younger than I. Neither is yet married, though the elder, Henriette, is promised to the younger son of a Marquis, whose name I quite forget. Thus Aurelie is the favored child in his family as well. I find his father aloof, and his mother having died many years ago, she is not present to facilitate our interactions.
Today my jeweler delivered a watch I had made for Andre to celebrate the birth of his child, and which I will leave with Maman while when we are in Riom. I am having new clothes made in great quantities, as I find it curious how many of my garments are no longer tolerable, my shape having changed in curious ways since last year. Another time I will recount the story of her birth, but for now Aurelie smiles at me and seems to want me to relinquish my pen. I am powerless to deny her merest whim. Oh, how I love my child!
-Olympe, Comtesse
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