improprieties. I noticed that whenever the Marquis d'Argens chanced to
let slip any equivocal expressions, all the ladies made wry faces, and
the chaplain hastened to turn the conversation. This chaplain had nothing
jesuitical in his appearance; he dressed in the costume of an ordinary
priest, and I should never had known him if the Marquis d'Argens had not
warned me. However, I did not allow his presence to act as a wet blanket.

I told, in the most decent manner possible, the story of the picture of
the Virgin suckling her Divine Child, and how the Spaniards deserted the
chapel after a stupid priest had covered the beautiful breast with a
kerchief. I do not know how it was, but all the ladies began to laugh.
The disciple of Loyola was so displeased at their mirth, that he took
upon himself to tell me that it was unbecoming to tell such equivocal
stories in public. I thanked him by an inclination of the head, and the
Marquis d'Argens, by way of turning the conversation, asked me what was
the Italian for a splendid dish of stewed veal, which Madame d'Argens was
helping.

"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.