I forced myself to put down the book last time, although I knew that to cease would drive the thoughts from my mind. Perhaps that was my purpose, to forget what I had written, and had promised to write... no matter. I shall dispense with trepidation now, as it is clear that I shall not escape... the subject returns to my mind at the oddest times. Thrice over the past week-- while in the carriage with my husband, taking Richars on a pic-nic in the country, playing with the darling babe before the fire, and, most lately, in the rue des gres between the haberdashers and the dressmaker's, as I looked through the shop window at the loveliest of gowns, and my reflection. Treacherous wine silks, the betrayal of pure white brocade! I thought of masks, you see... masks. And Carnival only a month, or a little more (I never do pay too much attention to the calendar) away!

I hate Mardi Gras, I hate the whole idea of it. The only thing I like about Lent is that it is easy to keep my figure trim under the banner of piety. But I loathe the principle. As for Mardi Gras itself, and the 'gaiety' of Carnival, I hate it as much as Hallow'een, if not the more. People pretending to be ghosts and angels. People playing at disguises who really have no idea what it is like... and what if I were to go as myself, on one of these dressing occasions?

No, no, do not think of it, Christine. Christian. Damn!

I have stared for five minutes at the curse written upon the page, and at what I have written, the page itself. I am not telling my tale, and the tale is what matters. Not what I have done to-day and yesterday, not what the face of my little boy looks like as he plays upon my coverlet with a stuffed, lop-eared bunny-rabbit that darling Meg brought for him last week. He is so beautiful, so complete. With his nose bunched up like that, he really does resemble me. The sweet little thing.

This is not a diary, this is a confession. I would do well to remember that...

Discipline. Discipline learned is the first thing to go. Do I sing now? Ironically, only in the choir. I do not even attend the Opera, save the Comique. And that, only very rarely.

Discipline. And really, to dispense with the prattle. Discipline... of my eating, of actions, of voice... it really did become second nature to me, working in the Paris Opera, a chorus girl with a bit of talent and...

Luck, perhaps. Or a dream which could be fed, by the right illusion. The Angel of Music. How did he know!?

Intuition, perhaps. How do we know anything? The world comes to us in the forms it will wear, and what can we do, really, but play the forms which we are given?

And to make of them what we will.