An event took place yesterday which should certainly find a place in my journal. When, according to our custom, I went down to our parents' apartments with madame and my sisters, I found Kochanowski, son of the castellan, talking with my father in one of the window recesses; their conversation was so animated that they did not perceive our entrance. I could not hear what they said, but the last words uttered by my father caught my ear: 'Sir, you shall soon have my decisive answer.' He then said something in a low tone to my mother, who sent for the steward, and gave a whispered order; soon after, dinner was announced. Mr. Kochanowski was seated opposite to me; I could not help remarking the especial care he had bestowed upon his toilet. He wore an embroidered velvet coat, a white satin waistcoat, a frilled shirt, and lace sleeves; his hair was frizzed, curled, and pomatumed: in short, everything indicated some peculiar motive for attention to his dress. His manners harmonized with his appearance: he spoke much, seemed excited, was continually mingling French words in his discourse, and was twice as witty as usual: all this became him well, and diverted me exceedingly. Dinner was unusually long, and we were obliged to wait some time for the roast meat. I had abundance of leisure to observe that the castellan's son, although he talked and smiled unceasingly, was by no means at his ease; he became pale and red by turns. The doors were finally opened, and the servants entered with the dishes. Kochanowski grew pale as a sheet; not knowing to what to attribute his emotion, I looked round me on all sides, and my eyes fell at length upon the dishes which had just been brought in. I saw a goose dressed with a certain black sauce (jusznik), which among us signifies a refusal. I did not dare to raise my eyes, a thousand fancies floated through my brain; I remembered the Cracoviennes, the Mazurkas, the minuets, in which Kochanowski had displayed so much grace; then his graceful appearance on horseback, the French with which he so plentifully sprinkled his conversation, and his never-failing compliments.... A feeling of melancholy seized upon my heart, I lost courage, and could not touch a single dish. My parents were as much affected as myself; if the gray end had not helped to finish out the dinner, it would have been sent away untouched. It seemed to me that we were ages at table; I was impatient to know the end. My father finally gave the signal, and we rose, but while we were each saying the after-dinner grace, Mr. Kochanowski slipped out at a small side door, and did not again make his appearance. When the courtiers and chamberlains had retired, my parents desired me to leave my work and come to them: my father said: