ry day, when Count Saxe was sent for to Fontainebleau to
receive this kingly present, I was with him. He was summoned to the
king's closet by Marshal, the Duc de Noailles--the one who always
called my master "My Saxe." As soon as Count Saxe disappeared, I was
left in the anteroom with the mob of ladies and gentlemen; they
flocked about me. They knew that a great honor for Count Saxe was
impending, and by some strange logic, they persuaded themselves that
they were entitled to share in it, and they looked upon me as a
shoeing horn. I was "good Babache" to people I had never seen before.
My health, all at once, seemed to become of consequence to everybody
at Fontainebleau; and the proverb that a beggar, on falling into a
fortune, has neither relations nor friends, was speedily disproved. I
found I had hosts of friends, and no doubt could have found some
relations if I had tried. Courtiers are very childlike creatures after
all. The continual frank pursuit of their own interests brings them
back to the starting point of a savage, who does not see or know
anything beyond to-day and its wants.

Among the waiting crowd was Monsieur Voltaire. I had seen him several
times in the preceding two years. He always greeted me civilly--a
tribute I think to the poor lost Adrienne, whom none who knew her
could forget. On this day, however, Voltaire eyed me somewhat
superciliously, and I protest I relished it by contrast with the
smirks and bows and smiles and honeyed words lavished upon me by
others in hopes of an invitation to Chambord.

My master remained with the king a full half hour. When he came out,
he was accompanied, as when he went in, by the old marshal, Duc de
Noailles. As soon as I saw Count Saxe's face, I knew that something
more and better had befallen him than a life interest in a great
estate. His eyes, the brightest and clearest in the world, sought me
out, and by a look, he brought me to his side, the people making way
readily enough--real princes cheerfully taking the wall for this Tatar
prince born in the Marais! When I got quite close to my master, he
whispered in my ear:

"Marshal of France, if successful!"

I felt myself grow hot with joy. Marshal of France! How much greater
was that than a huge pile of stone like Chambord!

The Duc de Noailles was then giving out the news, and, turning to my
master, the white-haired marshal embraced him as a brother in arms.
But I had been the first one told by my master.