March 18, 1554
Le Louvre Palace, Paris

It is so hard to be in Paris as spring begins. It is really not the place to be. Thank heaven the four Marys are here. We may all complain together. Spring in the French countryside is magical. We should be at Chambord, or Chenonceau, or Anet, or Fontainebleau, but not here in this smelly old city. The palace is near the marketplace, and we smell all the awful smells – blood from the meat market and the old rotten vegetables that they keep too long, then throw into garbage heaps in the farmers’ market. And then the street gutters swirl with swill – swill I will not describe, for it would be most indelicate. But you might imagine, for much of Paris does not have proper privies.