The Duc de Nivernois has parts, and writes at the top of the mediocre, but, as Madame Geoffrin says, is manque par tout; guerrier manque, ambassadeur manque, homme d’affaires manque, and auteur manque—­no, he is not homme de naissance manque.  He would think freely, but has some ambition of being governor to the Dauphin, and is more afraid of his wife and daughter, who are ecclesiastic fagots.  The former out-chatters the Duke of Newcastle; and the latter, Madame de Gisors, exhausts Mr. Pitt’s eloquence in defence of the Archbishop of Paris.  Monsieur de Nivernois lives in a small circle of dependent admirers, and Madame de Rochfort is high-priestess for a small salary of credit.

The Duchess of Choiseul, the only young one of these heroines, is not very pretty, but has fine eyes, and is a little model in waxwork, which not being allowed to speak for some time as incapable, has a hesitation and modesty, the latter of which the Court has not cured, and the former of which is atoned for by the most interesting sound of voice, and forgotten in the most elegant turn and propriety of expression.  Oh! it is the gentlest, amiable, civil little creature that ever came out of a fairy egg! so just in its phrases and thoughts, so attentive and good-natured!  Everybody loves it but its husband, who prefers his own sister the Duchesse de Granmont, an Amazonian, fierce, haughty dame, who loves and hates arbitrarily, and is detested.  Madame de Choiseul, passionately fond of her husband, was the martyr of this union, but at last submitted with a good grace; has gained a little credit with him, and is still believed to idolize him.  But I doubt it—­she takes too much pains to profess it.

I cannot finish my list without adding a much more common character—­but more complete in its kind than any of the foregoing, the Marechale de Luxembourg.  She has been very handsome, very abandoned, and very mischievous.  Her beauty is gone, her lovers are gone, and she thinks the devil is coming.  This dejection has softened her into being rather agreeable, for she has wit and good-breeding; but you would swear, by the restlessness of her person and the horrors she cannot conceal, that she had signed the compact, and expected to be called upon in a week for the performance.

I could add many pictures, but none so remarkable.  In those I send you there is not a feature bestowed gratis or exaggerated.  For the beauties, of which there are a few considerable, as Mesdames de Brionne, de Monaco, et d’Egmont, they have not yet lost their characters, nor got any.

You must not attribute my intimacy with Paris to curiosity alone.  An accident unlocked the doors for me.  That passe-par-tout called the fashion has made them fly open—­and what do you think was that fashion?—­I myself.  Yes, like Queen Eleanor in the ballad, I sunk at Charing Cross, and have risen in the Fauxbourg St. Germain.  A plaisanterie on Rousseau, whose arrival here