n sabots to rub the floor.

You perceive that I have been presented. The Queen took great notice of
me; none of the rest said a syllable. You are let into the King's
bedchamber just as he has put on his shirt; he dresses and talks
good-humouredly to a few, glares at strangers, goes to mass, to dinner,
and a-hunting. The good old Queen, who is like Lady Primrose in the
face, and Queen Caroline in the immensity of her cap, is at her
dressing-table, attended by two or three old ladies, who are languishing
to be in Abraham's bosom, as the only man's bosom to whom they can hope
for admittance. Thence you go to the Dauphin, for all is done in an
hour. He scarce stays a minute; indeed, poor creature, he is a ghost,
and cannot possibly last three months. The Dauphiness is in her
bedchamber, but dressed and standing; looks cross, is not civil, and has
the true Westphalian grace and accents. The four Mesdames, who are
clumsy plump old wenches, with a bad likeness to their father, stand in
a bedchamber in a row, with black cloaks and knotting-bags, looking
good-humoured, not knowing what to say, and wriggling as if they wanted
to make water. This ceremony too is very short; then you are carried to
the Dauphin's three boys, who you may be sure only bow and stare. The
Duke of Berry[1] looks weak and weak-eyed: the Count de Provence is a
fine boy; the Count d'Artois well enough. The whole concludes with
seeing the Dauphin's little girl dine, who is as round and as fat as a
pudding.

[Footnote 1: The Duc de Berri was afterwards Louis XVI.; the Comte de
Provence became Louis XVIII.; and the Comte d'Artois, Charles X.]

In the Queen's antechamber we foreigners and the foreign ministers were
shown the famous beast of the Gevaudan, just arrived, and covered with a
cloth, which two chasseurs lifted up. It is an absolute wolf, but
uncommonly large, and the expression of agony and fierceness remains
strongly imprinted on its dead jaws.

I dined at the Duc of Praslin's with four-and-twenty ambassadors and
envoys, who never go but on Tuesdays to Court. He does the honours
sadly, and I believe nothing else well, looking important and empty. The
Duc de Choiseul's face, which is quite the reverse of gravity, does not
promise much more. His wife is gentle, pretty, and very agreeable. The
Duchess of Praslin, jolly, red-faced, looking very vulgar, and being
very attentive and civil. I saw the Duc de Richelieu in waiting, who is
pale, except his