The next day I called on Madame Vanloo, who informed me that Madame Blondel had charged her to thank me for having gone away, while her husband wished me to know that he was sorry not to have seen me to express his gratitude.

“He seems to have found his wife a maid, but that’s no fault of mine; and Manon Baletti is the only person he ought to be grateful to.  They tell me that he has a pretty baby, and that he lives at the Louvre, while she has another house in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs.”

“Yes, but he has supper with her every evening.”

“It’s an odd way of living.”

“I assure you it answers capitally.  Blondel regards his wife as his mistress.  He says that that keeps the flame of love alight, and that as he never had a mistress worthy of being a wife, he is delighted to have a wife worthy of being a mistress.”

The next day I devoted entirely to Madame de Rumain, and we were occupied with knotty questions till the evening.  I left her well pleased.  The marriage of her daughter, Mdlle.  Cotenfau, with M. de Polignac, which took place five or six years later, was the result of our cabalistic calculations.

The fair stocking-seller of the Rue des Prouveres, whom I had loved so well, was no longer in Paris.  She had gone off with a M. de Langlade, and her husband was inconsolable.  Camille was ill.  Coralline had become the titulary mistress of the Comte de la Marche, son of the Prince of Conti, and the issue of this union was a son, whom I knew twenty years later.  He called himself the Chevalier 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?”