“Una crostata,” I replied, “but I really do not know the Italian for the ‘beatilles’ with which it is stuffed.”

These ‘beatilles’ were balls of rice, veal, champignons, artichoke, foie gras, etc.

The Jesuit declared that in calling them ‘beatilles’ I was making a mock of the glories of hereafter.

I could not help roaring with laughter at this, and the Marquis d’Eguille took my part, and said that ‘beatilles’ was the proper French for these balls.

After this daring difference of opinion with his director, the worthy man thought it would be best to talk of something else.  Unhappily, however, he fell out of the frying-pan into the fire by asking me my opinion as to the election of the next pope.

“I believe it will be Ganganelli,” I replied, “as he is the only monk in the conclave.”

“Why should it be necessary to choose a monk?”

“Because none but a monk would dare to commit the excess which the Spaniards will demand of the new pope.”

“You mean the suppression of the Jesuits.”

“Exactly.”

“They will never obtain such a demand.”

“I hope not, for the Jesuits were my masters, and I love them accordingly.  But all the same Ganganelli will be elected, for an amusing and yet a weighty reason.”

“Tell us the reason.”

“He is the only cardinal who does not wear a wig; and you must consider that since the foundation of the Holy See the Pope has never been bewigged.”

This reason created a great deal of amusement; but the conversation was brought back to the suppression of the Jesuits, and when I told the company that I had heard from the Abbe Pinzi I saw the Jesuit turn pale.

“The Pope could never suppress the order,” he said.

“It seems that you have never been at a Jesuit seminary,” I replied, “for the dogma of the order is that the Pope can do everything, ’et aliquid pluris’.”

This answer made everybody suppose me to be unaware that I was speaking to a Jesuit, and as he gave me no answer the topic was abandoned.

After dinner I was asked to stay and see ‘Polieucte’ played; but I excused myself, and returned to Aix with the young Berliner, who told me the story of his sister, and made me acquainted with the character of the society to which the Marquis d’Eguille was chiefly addicted.  I felt that I could never adapt myself to their prejudices, and if it had not been for my young friend, who introduced me to some charming people, I should have gone on to Marseilles.

What with assemblies, balls, suppers, and the society of the handsome Provenqal ladies, I managed to spend the whole of the carnival and a part of Lent at Aix.

I had made a present of a copy of the “Iliad” to the learned Marquis d’Argens; to his daughter, who was also a good scholar, I gave a Latin tragedy.

The “Iliad” had Porphyry’s comment; it was a copy of a rare edition, and was richly bound.