One more day toward old age.

What baseness! Ange (Mme Angel) spends the evening with us; she is an educated and very agreeable woman. There is a superb moonlight, and our garden resembles that of Marguerite. The sea, framed on each side by our clusters of cypresses standing out in black against the ever-blue and this evening silvered sky, is divine with its silver reflections. Without hats we get into the carriage, all five of us, and drive about until half past eleven.

I shall say nothing of the beauties of nature in Nice, for "it is to humble sovereign works to impose our approbation upon them."