"Ah, Monsieur, there is a depth and truth in your remarks, worthy of
Montaigne. As it is impossible to account for the caprices of women, so
it is impossible for ourselves to analyze the merit they discover in us;
but, Monsieur, hear me--at the house where I lodge, there is an English
lady en pension. Eh bien, Monsieur, you guess the rest: she has taken a
caprice for me, and this very night she will admit me to her apartment.
She is very handsome,--Ah qu'elle est belle, une jolie petite bouche, une
denture eblouissante, un nez tout afait grec, in fine, quite a bouton de
rose."

I expressed my envy at Monsieur Margot's good fortune, and when he had
sufficiently dilated upon it, he withdrew. Shortly afterwards Vincent
entered--"I have a dinner invitation for both of us to-day," said he;
"you will come?"

"Most certainly," replied I; "but who is the person we are to honour?"

"A Madame Laurent," replied Vincent; "one of those ladies only found at
Paris, who live upon anything rather than their income. She keeps a
tolerable table, haunted with Poles, Russians, Austrians, and idle
Frenchmen, peregrinae gentis amaenum hospitium. As yet, she has not the
happiness to be acquainted with any Englishmen, (though she boards one of
our countrywomen) and (as she is desirous of making her fortune as soon
as possible) she is very anxious of having that honour. She has heard
vast reports of our wealth and wisdom, and flatters herself that we are
so many ambulatory Indies: in good truth, a Frenchwoman thinks she is
never in want of a fortune as long as there is a rich fool in the world.

"'Stultitiam patiuntur, opes,'