u see him through a prism of love, or am I blind?"

"You are not blind," she said, laughing. "The man is as ugly as a
caterpillar; but he has done me the most immense service a woman can
receive from a man."

As I looked at her rather maliciously she hastened to add: "He's a
physician, and he has completely cured me of those odious red blotches
which spoiled my complexion and made me look like a peasant woman."

I shrugged my shoulders with disgust.

"He is a charlatan."

"No," she said, "he is the surgeon of the court pages. He has a fine
intellect, I assure you; in fact, he is a writer, and a very learned
man."

"Heavens! if his style resembles his face!" I said scoffingly. "But who
is the other?"

"What other?"

"That spruce, affected little popinjay over there, who looks as if he
had been drinking verjuice."

"He is a rather well-born man," she replied; "just arrived from some
province, I forget which--oh! from Artois. He is sent here to conclude
an affair in which the Cardinal de Rohan is interested, and his Eminence
in person had just presented him to Monsieur de Saint-James. It seems
they have both chosen my husband as arbitrator. The provincial didn't
show his wisdom in that; but fancy what simpletons the people who sent
him here must be to trust a case to a man of his sort! He is as meek as
a sheep and as timid as a girl. His Eminence is very kind to him."

"What is the nature of the affair?"

"Oh! a question of three hundred thousand francs."

"Then the man is a lawyer?" I said, with a slight shrug.

"Yes," she replied.

Somewhat confused by this humiliating avowal, Madame Bodard returned to
her place at a faro-table.

All the tables were full. I had nothing to do, no one to speak to, and
I had just lost two thousand crowns to Monsieur de Laval. I flung myself
on a sofa near the fireplace. Presently, if there was ever a man on
earth most utterly astonished it was I, when, on looking up, I saw,
seated on another sofa on the opposite side of the fireplace, Monsieur
de Calonne, the comptroller-general. He seemed to be dozing, or else he
was buried in one of those deep meditations which overtake statesmen.
When I pointed out the famous minister to Beaumarchais, who happened to
come near me at that moment, the father of Figaro explained the mystery
of his presence in that house without uttering a word. He pointed first
at my head, then at Bodard's with a malicious gesture which consisted in
turn