When the Marshal died, he was carried to his house on a common hand-barrow, covered with a shabby cloth.  I met the body.  The bearers were laughing and singing.  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 at them with an air of the utmost astonishment, but I made signs to Madame that I thought them all false.  The Count felt for something in his pocketbook, about twice as large as a spectacle-case, and, at length, drew out two or three little paper packets, which he unfolded, and exhibited a superb ruby.  He threw on the table, with a contemptuous air, a little cross of green and