February 18, 1554

Naturally our plans for skating were squashed because Queen Catherine insists on one last practice of the ballet, which we are to give tonight. But then, thank heavens, we shall be done with this fool thing.

Madame de Parois has received a diagnosis of dropsy, an affliction that causes one to swell up. Mary Fleming dared a peek at her legs. She pretended to drop something under the card table when we were playing, and she said Madame de Parois had her stockings rolled down and her dress hitched up and that her legs looked like tree trunks. No ankles to speak of. Now I feel very bad for her. I have sought out Father Confessor and have told him of my regret in thinking such – well, not evil, but unkind – thoughts about Madame de Parois. I cannot make formal confession for I have not yet made my First Communion. Father Mamerot and my uncle the Cardinal will decide when that will happen. I am anxious, of course, but I know I am not ready. For in truth, in regard to Madame de Parois, I ask myself, if her legs went back to normal, if she did not have the dropsy, would I really try to improve my behaviour? Probably not. I therefore do not think I am ready for my First Communion. The woman does vex me so, fat legs or not. I wish I had more patience with her. I wish I could ignore her often beastly ways. But I can’t. I suppose this is a character flaw within me. I have discussed all this with Father Confessor. I am not sure if saying a thousand rosaries would help me. In any case, Doctor de la Romaniére, the King’s physician, has sent her to Paris. She will be more comfortable there, and she has a sister who can help care for her.