_Paris, January 28, 1836._--Yesterday we were dining with Marshal Maison. It was a remarkable dinner for many reasons, but especially for the stories told by the Marshal's wife, one of which amused me for a long time afterwards. They were speaking of crowded balls and saying how difficult it was to discover the exact number of guests actually present; thereupon the Marshal's wife observed in her high, shrill voice: "I have an admirable method which has always worked successfully in all the balls I have given; I put my chambermaid behind the door with a bag of beans at her side, and I say: 'Mariette, when any one comes in, you will take a bean out of the big bag and put it in your handbag.' Thus the numbers are exactly known, and that is the best way of doing it." So strong an inclination to wild laughter overcame me that I nearly choked, and Mmes. de Lieven, von Werther, and von Löwenhielm, who were present, were in the same predicament.
_Paris, February 1, 1836._--If I were at my dear Rochecotte, as I was last year, I should think that spring was beginning on February 1, whereas here one can say nothing of the kind. My old dislike of Paris has been growing upon me for some time. Not that people are in any way disagreeable--indeed, the contrary is the case; but life at Paris is too exhausting, the atmosphere is too keen, attractions are too numerous and widely spread, while at the same time they are not sufficiently strong. There is no leisure, constant worry, and a continual sense of want.
At London I lived amid a society at once high and simple-minded; social success and leisure were possible at the same time. M. de Talleyrand there enjoyed good health and was occupied with important business. The excitement which I then experienced had its compensations; I had time for my own occupations, for reading, working, writing, and thinking, nor was I pestered by every idle person. If calling is a tax upon one's time, calls can be paid at London with an empty carriage and with cards; in short, life was then a pleasure. Hence my deep and melancholy regret for those years which will never return; hence my longing for the calm and sweetness of Rochecotte, with its wide horizon and its pure sky, for my clean house, my kind and simple neighbours, my workpeople, my flowers, my big dog, my little cow and goat, the good Abbé, the modest Vestier, the little wood where we used to gather fir-cones--the place, in short, where I am at my best, because I have time for valuable introspection, for enlightenment of thought, for the practice of good and the avoidance of evil, time to unite myself in simplicity of heart and mind with the beauty, the strength, and the graciousness of nature, which there gives me shelter, refreshment, and repose. But a truce to these self-complainings, which are useless and ungrateful.