dnesday, _March 13th_.

An event took place yesterday which should certainly find a place in my
journal. When, according to our custom, I went down to our parents'
apartments with madame and my sisters, I found Kochanowski, son of the
castellan, talking with my father in one of the window recesses; their
conversation was so animated that they did not perceive our entrance. I
could not hear what they said, but the last words uttered by my father
caught my ear: 'Sir, you shall soon have my decisive answer.'

He then said something in a low tone to my mother, who sent for the
steward, and gave a whispered order; soon after, dinner was announced.
Mr. Kochanowski was seated opposite to me; I could not help remarking
the especial care he had bestowed upon his toilet. He wore an
embroidered velvet coat, a white satin waistcoat, a frilled shirt, and
lace sleeves; his hair was frizzed, curled, and pomatumed: in short,
everything indicated some peculiar motive for attention to his dress.
His manners harmonized with his appearance: he spoke much, seemed
excited, was continually mingling French words in his discourse, and was
twice as witty as usual: all this became him well, and diverted me
exceedingly.

Dinner was unusually long, and we were obliged to wait some time for the
roast meat. I had abundance of leisure to observe that the castellan's
son, although he talked and smiled unceasingly, was by no means at his
ease; he became pale and red by turns. The doors were finally opened,
and the servants entered with the dishes. Kochanowski grew pale as a
sheet; not knowing to what to attribute his emotion, I looked round me
on all sides, and my eyes fell at length upon the dishes which had just
been brought in. I saw a goose dressed with a certain black sauce
(jusznik), which among us signifies a refusal.

I did not dare to raise my eyes, a thousand fancies floated through my
brain; I remembered the Cracoviennes, the Mazurkas, the minuets, in
which Kochanowski had displayed so much grace; then his graceful
appearance on horseback, the French with which he so plentifully
sprinkled his conversation, and his never-failing compliments.... A
feeling of melancholy seized upon my heart, I lost courage, and could
not touch a single dish. My parents were as much affected as myself; if
the gray end had not helped to finish out the dinner, it would have been
sent away untouched.

It seemed to me that we were ages at table; I was impatient