Who found it in their heart to take pity on me, then? Was it my mother, my father, could it have been my brother?

I sat there on my grandmother’s sofa, gazing on the purse my father had left on the mantelpiece, at once pleased and put out by that act of kindness, which kept my thoughts on money. To be sure, there was no use thinking of it any further; my uncertainties have been dispelled, and there is something noble about sparing me any painful discoveries on that subject.

Philippe spent the day making the rounds of the merchants and artisans who will be charged with my metamorphosis. In my rooms, I received a celebrated dressmaker, a certain Victorine, as well as a woman who will see to my linens and a man for my shoes. I am as impatient as a child to discover what I will look like when I abandon the sack the convent’s dress code draped over us, but these artisans will not be hurried: the corsetiere wants a week, so as to do justice to my figure. This is becoming serious—so I have a figure? Janssen, the shoemaker to the Opéra, positively assured me that I have my mother’s foot. I spent the entire morning on these weighty concerns. There was even a glover, come to measure my hand. The lingerie maker took my orders. At my lunchtime, which as it happened was their breakfast, my mother told me we would visit the hat shops together, so that I might develop my tastes and learn to order my own. I am dazed by this newfound independence, like a blind woman suddenly recovering her sight. I can now see what a Carmelite is to a young woman of the world: the difference is greater than we ever dreamt.

My father seemed distracted at breakfast, and we left him to his thoughts; he’s privy to all the king’s secrets. He had entirely forgotten me. He will remember when he has need of me, that I could plainly see. Even at fifty, my father is a most appealing man: his figure is youthful, he is pleasingly built, he is blond, his demeanor and manners are exquisite; he has the face of a diplomat, at once expressive and secretive; his nose is thin and long, his eyes are brown. What a handsome couple! How many curious notions bedeviled me when I realized that those two, equally noble, rich, and superior, do not live together, share only their name, and are united only in the eyes of the world! Yesterday the elite of the court and the diplomatic sphere were here. In a few days I shall go to a ball hosted by the Duchess de Maufrigneuse, where I will be introduced to the society I so long to know. A dancing master will come every morning: I must know how to dance within a month, or I may not go to the ball.

Before dinner, my mother came to see me on the subject of my governess. I chose to keep Miss Griffith, who was given to her by the British ambassador. That miss is a government minister’s daughter, impeccably bred; her mother was noble; she’s thirty-six years old; she’ll teach me English. My Griffith is beautiful enough to have aspirations; she is poor and proud, and Scottish, she’ll be my chaperone and sleep in Rose’s room. Rose will be at Miss Griffith’s disposal. I saw at once that I would govern my governess. Over the six days we’ve been together, she has clearly understood that I alone am allowed to take an interest in her, while I, despite her statue-like reserve, have understood that she will treat me with great indulgence. She seems a good-hearted creature but discreet. Of what was said between her and my mother I could learn nothing.

Another trifling little piece of news! This morning my father refused the ministerial position he had been offered. That explains why he was so preoccupied yesterday. He would prefer an ambassadorship, he said, to the tedium of public deliberations. He has his eye on Spain. I learned this at breakfast, the one time of day when my father, mother, and brother are together more or less in private, for the servants come only when rung for. The rest of the time my brother is away, like my father.