Paris in the Spring

Caesar, or nothing ...
Mama and Wolfie arrived at their Paris lodgings on the 24th March with their two trunks and their sore throats after nine and a half days of being stuck in a coach. It is too bad that I am not with them. Wolfie has been instructed by Papa to wear a black suit with a richly worked waistcoat for grand occasions but for the moment he and Mama are confined to bed in the house of Monsieur Mayer.
I am also as sick as a dog, taking black powders and elderberry tea to make me sweat. I would prefer to exercise my French and talk with Messieurs Gluck and Piccini on the dotted rhythms of an ouverture or else be received by Monsieur Grimm in his salon. I would DEFINITELY wish to be introduced to the Chevalier St George, whose fencing is meant to be as fine as his violin playing and who is much admired by the ladies for the darkness of his skin. I have heard his extemporising is admirable… I would of course like to meet the Queen of France and note the details of her dress. But it will never happen. I remain in Salzburg and each morning, I rise at six to go to mass at Holy Trinity. Papa says my regularity has provoked comment. Surely he means my piety? N.