When I related to comte Jean my reconciliation with the duc de Richelieu, and the sum which this treaty had cost me, my brother-in-law flew into the most violent fury; he styled the marÉchal a plunderer of the public treasury. Well may the scripture tell us we see the mote in our neighbor’s eye, but regard not the beam which is in our own eye. I was compelled to impose silence on comte Jean, or in the height of his rage he would have offered some insult to the old marÉchal, who already most heartily disliked him for the familiarity of his tone and manner towards him. I did all in my power to keep these two enemies from coming in each other’s way, counselled to that by the marÉchale de Mirepoix, whose line of politics was of the most pacific nature; besides I had no inclination for a war carried on in my immediate vicinity, and, for my own part, so far from wishing to harm any one, I quickly forgave every affront offered to myself.

But hold! I perceive I am running on quite smoothly in my own praise. Indeed, my friend, it is well I have taken that office upon myself, for I fear no one else would undertake it. The most atrocious calumnies have been invented against me; I have been vilified both in prose and verse; number of persons on whom I have conferred the greatest obligations, none has been found with sufficient courage or gratitude to stand forward and undertake my defence. I do not even except madame de Mirepoix, whose conduct towards me in former days was marked by the most studied attention. She came to me one evening, with a face of grief.

“Mercy upon me,” cried I, “what ails you?”

“Alas!” replied she, in a piteous tone, “I have just quitted a most afflicted family; their loss is heavy and irreparable. The marÉchale de Luxembourg is well nigh distracted with grief.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed I, “can the duchesse de Lauzun be dead?”

“Alas! no.”

“Perhaps poor madame de Boufflers?”

“No, my friend.”

“Who then is the object of so much regret? Speak; tell me.”

“Madame Brillant.”

“A friend of the old marÉchale ‘s?”

“More than a friend,” replied madame de Mirepoix; “her faithful companion; her only companion; her only beloved object, since her lovers and admirers ceased to offer their homage—in a word, her cat.”

“Bless me!” cried I, “how you frightened me! But what sort of a cat could this have been to cause so many tears?”

“Is it possible that you do not know madame Brillant, at least by name?”

“I assure you,” said I, “this is the very first time I ever heard her name.”

“Well, if it be so, I will be careful not to repeat such a thing to madame de Luxembourg; she would never pardon you for it. Listen, my dear countess,” continued madame de Mirepoix; “under the present circumstances it will be sufficient for you to write your name in her visiting-book.”

I burst into a fit of laughter.

“It is no joke, I promise you,” exclaimed the marÉchale; “the death of madame Brillant is a positive calamity to madame de Luxembourg. Letters of condolence will arrive from Chanteloup; madame du Deffant will be in deep affliction, and the virtues and amiable qualities of the deceased cat will long furnish subjects of conversation.”

“It was then a singularly engaging animal, I presume?”

“On the contrary, one of the most stupid, disagreeable, and dirty creatures of its kind; but still it was the cat of madame de Luxembourg.”

And after this funeral oration the marÉchale and myself burst into a violent fit of laughter.

When the king joined us, I acquainted him with this death, and my conversation with the marÉchale. Louis XV listened to my recital with an air of gravity; when I had finished, he said, “The present opportunity is admirably adopted for satisfying the request of one of my retinue, one of the best-hearted creatures, and at the same time one of the silliest men in the kingdom.”

“I beg your pardon, sire,” cried I, “but what is his name? For the description is so general, that I fear lest I should be at a loss to recollect of whom you are speaking.”

“You are very ill-natured,” cried Louis XV, “and I hardly know whether you deserve to be gratified by hearing the name of the poor gentleman: however, I will tell it to you; he is called Corbin de la Chevrollerie. A few days since this simple young man, having solicited an audience, informed me, that he was desirous of marrying a rich heiress, but that the young lady’s family were resolved she should marry no one who was not previously employed as an ambassador. I expressed my surprise at so strange a caprice, but the poor fellow endeavored to vindicate his bride’s relations, by stating that that they were willing to consider him as my ambassador if I would only commission him to carry some message of compliment or condolence. Accordingly I promised to employ him upon the occasion of the first death or marriage which should take place in a ducal family. Now, I think I cannot do better than make him the bearer of my inquiries after the marÉchale de Luxembourg.”

This idea struck me as highly amusing, and I immediately dispatched a servant to summon M. de la Chevrollerie to the presence of the king. This being done, that gentleman presented himself with all the dignity and importance of one who felt that a mission of high moment was about to be entrusted to him.

His majesty charged him to depart immediately to the house of madame de Luxembourg, and to convey his royal master’s sincere condolences for the heavy loss she had sustained in madame Brillant.

M. Corbin de la Chevrollerie departed with much pride and self-complacency upon his embassy: he returned in about half an hour.

“Sire,” cried he, “I have fulfilled your royal pleasure to madame de Luxembourg. She desires me to thank you most humbly for your gracious condescension: she is in violent distress for the severe loss she has experienced, and begged my excuse for quitting me suddenly, as she had to superintend the stuffing of the deceased.”

“The stuffing!” exclaimed the king; “surely you mean the embalming?”

“No, sire,” replied the ambassador, gravely, “the stuffing.”

“Monsieur de la Chevrollerie,” cried I, bursting into a violent fit of laughter, “do you know in what degree of relationship the deceased madame Brillant stood to madame de Luxembourg?”

“No, madam,” replied the ambassador, gravely, “but I believe she was her aunt, for I heard one of the females in waiting say, that this poor madame Brillant was very old, and that she had lived with her mistress during the last fourteen years.”

Thus finished this little jest. However, Louis XV, who was extremely kind to all about him, especially those in his service, shortly after recompensed his simple-minded ambassador, by intrusting him with a commission at once profitable and honorable.

Another event which took place at this period, caused no less noise than the death of madame Brillant. At this time, mademoiselle Mesnard was, for her many charms of mind and person, the general rage throughout Paris. Courtiers, lawyers, bankers, and citizens crowded alike to offer their homage. Frail as fair, mademoiselle Mesnard received all kindly, and took with gracious smiles the rich gifts showered upon her by her various adorers. The first noblemen of the court, knights of the different orders, farmers-general, all aspired to the honor of ruining themselves for her. She had already satisfied the ruinous propensities of at least a dozen of lovers, when the duc de Chaulnes entered the lists, and was fortunate enough to eclipse all his rivals. He might long have enjoyed the preference thus obtained, but for an act of the greatest imprudence of which a lover could be guilty. He was so indiscreet as to invite several of his most intimate friends to sup with himself and Mademoiselle Mesnard. Amongst the number was Caron de Beaumarchais, a man possessed of the grace of a prince and the generous profusion of a highwayman. Caron de Beaumarchais attracted the fancy of the fickle mademoiselle Mesnard, a mutual understanding was soon established between them, and in a snug little cottage surrounded by beautiful grounds in the environs of Pere la Chaise, the enamored lovers frequently met to exchange their soft vows.

Happily the deity who presided over the honor of the duke was carefully watching their proceedings. This guardian angel was no other than madame Duverger, his former mistress, who, unable to bear the desertion of her noble admirer, had vowed, in the first burst of rage and disappointment, to have revenge sooner or later upon her triumphant rival. With this view she spied out all the proceedings of mademoiselle Mesnard, whose stolen interviews and infidelity she was not long in detecting; she even contrived to win over a femme de chambre, by whose connivance she was enabled to obtain possession of several letters containing irrefragable proofs of guilt, and these she immediately forwarded to the duc de Chaulnes.

This proud and haughty nobleman might have pardoned his mistress had she quitted him for a peer of the realm and his equal, but to be supplanted by a mere man of business, an author, too!—the disgrace was too horrible for endurance. The enraged lover flew to Beaumarchais, and reproached him bitterly with his treachery; the latter sought to deny the charge, but the duke, losing all self-possession, threw the letters in his face, calling him a base liar. At this insult, Beaumarchais, who, whatever his enemies may say of him, was certainly not deficient in courage, demanded instant satisfaction. The duke, by way of answer, seized the man of letters by the collar, Beaumarchais called his servants, who, in their turn, summoned the guard, which speedily arrived accompanied by the commissary, and with much difficulty they succeeded in removing M. de Chaulnes (who appeared to have entirely lost his reason) from the room.

The conduct of the duke appeared to us completely out of place, and he would certainly have answered for it within the walls of the Bastille, had not his family made great intercession for him. On the other hand, Beaumarchais, who eagerly availed himself of every opportunity of writing memorials, composed one on the subject of his quarrel with M. de Chaulnes, complaining that a great nobleman had dared to force himself into his house, and lay forcible hands on him, as though he were a thief or a felon. The whole of the pamphlet which related to this affair was admirably written, and, like the “Barber of Seville,” marked by a strongly sarcastic vein. However, the thing failed, and the duc de la VrilliÈre, the sworn enemy of men of wit and talent, caused Beaumarchais to be immediately confined within Fort l’Eveque. So that the offended party was made to suffer the penalty of the offence.

In the same year the comte de Fuentes, ambassador from Spain to the court of Louis XV, took leave of us. He was replaced by the comte d’Aranda, who was in a manner in disgrace with his royal master: this nobleman arrived preceded by a highly flattering reputation. In the first place, he had just completed the destruction of the Jesuits, and this was entitling him to no small thanks and praises from encyclopedists. Every one knows those two lines of Voltaire’s—

The simplicity of comte d’Aranda indemnified us in some degree for the haughty superciliousness of his predecessor. Although no longer young, he still preserved all the tone and vigor of his mind, and only the habit which appeared to have been born with him of reflecting, gave him a slow and measured tone in speaking. His reserved and embarrassed manners were but ill-calculated to show the man as he really was, and it required all the advantages of intimacy to see him in his true value. You may attach so much more credit to what I say of this individual, as I can only add, that he was by no means one of my best friends.

When Louis XV heard of the nomination of the comte d’Aranda to the embassy from Spain to France, he observed to me,

“The king of Spain gets rid of his Choiseul by sending him to me.”

“Then why not follow so excellent an example, sire?” replied I; “and since your Choiseul is weary of Chanteloup, why not command him upon some political errand to the court of Madrid.”

“Heaven preserve me from such a thing,” exclaimed Louis XV. “Such a man as he is ought never to quit the kingdom, and I have been guilty of considerable oversight to leave him the liberty of so doing. But to return to comte d’Aranda; he has some merit I understand; still I like not that class of persons around me; they are inexorable censors, who condemn alike every action of my life.”

However, not the king’s greatest enemy could have found fault with his manner of passing his leisure hours. A great part of each day was occupied in a mysterious manufacture of cases for relics, and one of his valets de chambre, named Turpigny, was intrusted with the commission of purchasing old shrines and reliquaries; he caused the sacred bones, or whatever else they contain, to be taken out by Grandelatz, one of his almoners, re-adjusted, and then returned to new cases. These reliquaries were distributed by him to his daughters, or any ladies of the court of great acknowledged piety. When I heard of this I mentioned it to the king, who wished at first to conceal the fact; but, as he was no adept at falsehood or disguise, he was compelled to admit the fact.

“I trust, sire,” said I, “that you will bestow one of your prettiest and best-arranged reliquaries on me.”

“Because,” answered he, “it would be sinful of me. Ask anything else in my power to bestow, and it shall be yours.”

This was no hypocrisy on the part of Louis XV, who, spite of his somewhat irregular mode of life, professed to hold religion in the highest honor and esteem; to all that it proscribed he paid the submission of a child. We had ample proofs of this in the sermons preached at Versailles by the abbÉ de Beauvais, afterwards bishop of Senetz.

This ecclesiastic, filled with an inconsiderate zeal, feared not openly to attack the king in his public discourses; he even went so far as to interfere with many things of which he was not a competent judge, and which by no means belonged to his jurisdiction: in fact, there were ample grounds for sending the abbÉ to the Bastille. The court openly expressed its dissatisfaction at this audacity, and for my own part I could not avoid evincing the lively chagrin it caused me. Yet, would you believe it, Louis XV declared, in a tone from which there was no appeal abbÉ had merely done his duty, and that those who had been less scrupulous in the performance of theirs, would do well to be silent on the subject. This was not all; the cardinal de la Roche Aymon, his grand almoner, refused to sanction the nomination of M. de Beauvais to the bishopric, under the pretext of his not being nobly descended.

M. de Beyons, bishop of Carcassone, a prelate of irreproachable character, was deeply distressed to find that the want of birth would exclude M. de Beauvais from the dignities of his holy profession. He went to discuss the matter with the grand almoner, who again advanced his favorite plea for excluding M. de Beauvais. “My lord,” replied M. de Beyons, “if I believed that nobility of descent were the chief requisite for our advancement in our blessed calling, I would trample my crosier under foot, and renounce for ever all church dignities.”

M. de Beyons sought the king, and loudly complained to him of the infatuation and obstinacy of M. de la Roche Aymon. Louis XV however commanded that M. de Beauvais should be appointed to the first vacant see, and when the grand almoner repeated his objections to the preferment, the king answered, “Monsieur le cardinal, in the days of our blessed Saviour the apostles had no need to present their genealogical tree, duly witnessed and attested. It is my pleasure to make M. de Beauvais a bishop; let that end the discussion of the matter.”

The command was too peremptory to admit of any course but instant and entire submission.