While my internet connection lasts....Sick this morning of the flu that's been plaguing all the other denizens of the Palace, and of fear. I resign myself to it, as I do to the weather (pleasant, cold o' nights), and to the fog of horror that's spreading over the country. The Tuileries is certainly not as comfy as Little Trianon, but it's bigger. Everywhere you go (War abroad, Terror at home), there's a crispy little note of Fascism (Authority-fear/worship) in the air. The winter looks to be very bleak. Tell Axel not to bother with the coach-and-eight. A half dozen buggies will do.

Saw Gerald for an hour or so yesterday. Lorsque j'y pense se'rieusement, J'ai tout ce qu'il me faut pour me re'fugier aupre`s des francophones de n'importe quelle genre. Si je ne suis pas francophone, que suis-je donc? We did as before, and it was, as before,
soothing and restorative. Towards the end of our session, one of the two young women (lately) who serve Gerald (for love) came in, on her way, of course, to the kitchen, Meg by name, and said, as she passed, "Hi, Anatole," and I mindful that at our last encounter I had called her "Mary" (the Other Woman), was barely able to stammer back, "Hi, M,M,M...." God, what traps life lays for us.