nging. I thought it was some servant, and asked who
it was. How great was my surprise at learning that these were the
remains of a man abounding in honours and in riches. Such is the Court;
the dead are always in fault, and cannot be put out of sight too soon.

The King said, "M. Fouquet is dead, I hear."--"He was no longer Fouquet,"
replied the Duc d'Ayen; "Your Majesty had permitted him to change that
name, under which, however, he acquired all his reputation." The King
shrugged his shoulders. His Majesty had, in fact, granted him letters
patent, permitting him not to sign Fouquet during his Ministry. I heard
this on the occasion in question. M. de Choiseul had the war department
at his death. He was every day more and more in favour.

Madame treated him with greater distinction than any previous Minister,
and his manners towards her were the most agreeable it is possible to
conceive, at once respectful and gallant. He never passed a day without
seeing her. M. de Marigny could not endure M. de Choiseul, but he never
spoke of him, except to his intimate friends. Calling, one day, at
Quesnay's, I found him there. They were talking of M. de Choiseul. "He
is a mere 'petit maitre'," said the Doctor, "and, if he were handsome
just fit to be one of Henri the Third's favourites." The Marquis de
Mirabeau and M. de La Riviere came in. "This kingdom," said Mirabeau,
"is in a deplorable state. There is neither national energy, nor the
only substitute for it--money."--"It can only be regenerated," said La
Riviere, "by a conquest, like that of China, or by some great internal
convulsion; but woe to those who live to see that! The French people do
not do things by halves." These words made me tremble, and I hastened
out of the room. M. de Marigny did the same, though without appearing at
all affected by what had been said. "You heard De La Riviere," said
he,--"but don't be alarmed, the conversations that pass at the Doctor's
are never repeated; these are honourable men, though rather chimerical.
They know not where to stop. I think, however, they are in the right
way; only, unfortunately, they go too far." I wrote this down
immediately.

The Comte de St. Germain came to see Madame de Pompadour, who was ill,
and lay on the sofa. He shewed her a little box, containing topazes,
rubies, and emeralds. He appeared to have enough to furnish a treasury.
Madame sent for me to see all these beautiful things. I looked