de Montreal, and wore the cross of the
Knights of Malta. Several other girls I had known were widowed and in the
country, or had become inaccessible in other ways.

Such was the Paris of my day. The actors on its stage changed as rapidly
as the fashions.

I devoted a whole day to my old friend Baletti, who had left the theatre
and married a pretty ballet-girl on the death of his father; he was
making experiments with a view to finding the philosopher's stone.

I was agreeably surprised at meeting the poet Poinsinet at the Comedic
Francaise. He embraced me again and again, and told me that M. du Tillot
had overwhelmed him with kindness at Parma.

"He would not get me anything to do," said Poinsinet, "because a French
poet is rather at a discount in Italy."

"Have you heard anything of Lord Lismore?"

"Yes, he wrote to his mother from Leghorn, telling her that he was going
to the Indies, and that if you had not been good enough to give him a
thousand Louis he would have been a prisoner at Rome."

"His fate interests me extremely, and I should be glad to call on his
lady-mother with you."

"I will tell her that you are in Paris, and I am sure that she will
invite you to supper, for she has the greatest desire to talk to you."

"How are you getting on here? Are you still content to serve Apollo?"

"He is not the god of wealth by any means. I have no money and no room,
and I shall be glad of a supper, if you will ask me. I will read you my
play, the 'Cercle', which has been accepted. I am sure it will be
successful?"

The 'Cercle' was a short prose play, in which the poet satirised the
jargon of Dr. Herrenschwand, brother of the doctor I had consulted at
Soleure. The play proved to be a great success.

I took Poinsinet home to supper, and the poor nursling of the muses ate
for four. In the morning he came to tell me that the Countess of Lismore
expected me to supper.

I found the lady, still pretty, in company with her aged lover, M. de St.
Albin, Archbishop of Cambrai, who spent all the revenues of his see on
her. This worthy prelate was one of the illegitimate children of the Duc
d'Orleans, the famous Regent, by an actress. He supped with us, but he
only opened his mouth to eat, and his mistress only spoke of her son,
whose talents she lauded to the skies, though he was in reality a mere
scamp; but I felt in duty bound to echo what she said. It would have been
cruel to contradict her. I promised to let her