up to my knees in mud, and my pretty violet-coloured slippers spoilt!
First dinner bell! A hecatomb to the son of Latona,—his rays are getting less powerful, and it's getting a little later. Though nobody is staying here, I'll go and dress myself in the most elaborate manner; it will assist in the destruction of the time. What a dull dinner! I have eaten of every thing:—soupe printannière (twice)—fillets of turbot à la crême—fowl à la Montemorenci, garnished with ragoût à l'Allemande—neck of veal à la Ste. Menehoult—marinade of chickens à la St. Florentin—Muriton of red tongue, with spinach—six quails—two dishes of kale, merely with plain butter—half a dozen orange jellies, en mosaïques—cauliflowers with velouté sauce, and a petit gateau à la Mænon—a soufflée with lemon, and a dozen Neufchâtel cheeses —a bottle of Markebrunnen, a pint of Latour, and
