Here is Cecilia’s ermine, eating from his dish...he’s very much alive...here he comes, trotting across the floor, jumping into her lap, cuddling, ready for another pose.
Cloux
February 2, 1519
Tomorrow there is to be a sumptuous banquet in the château, again royalty. Three hundred guests, I hear: Germans, Dutch, Austrian, Swiss, two or three British, a Greek potentate; the majority will be Parisians and the château people. I will have one of my puppets, dressed as a hunter, in fur cap, etc., relate my fable about the great elk of Scandinavia.
I have constructed a papier-mâché lion—in yellow, black, and pink. He will walk a few steps down the center aisle of the banquet room, growl at the guests, then open his mouth to reveal a bouquet of white lilies.
Last week I was ill (my whole body ached), and I could not attend the masque ball.
At the ball, boxers fought in an arena, sawdust-floored; there were Swiss dancers and yodelers; sword swallowers performed: they are the rage now.
Michelangelo sleeps on my lap.