lady in question.

"/La pauvre diablesse/," said he, contemptuously, "I had once compassion
on her; I have repented it ever since. You have no idea what a terrible
creature she is; has such a wen in her neck, quite a /goitre/. /Mort
diable/!" (and the Abbe spat in his handkerchief), "I would sooner have
a /liaison/ with the witch of Endor!"

Not content with this, he went on in his usual gross and displeasing
manner to enumerate or to forge those various particulars of her
personal charms which he thought most likely to steel me against her
attractions. "Thank Heaven, at least," thought I, "that she has gone!"

Scarcely had this pious gratulation flowed from my heart, before the
door was burst open, and, pale, trembling, eyes on fire, hands clenched,
forth stalked the lady in question. A wonderful proof how much sooner a
woman would lose her character than allow it to be called not worth the
losing! She entered, and had all the furies of Hades lent her their
tongues, she could not have been more eloquent. It would have been a
very pleasant scene if one had not been a partner in it. The old Abbe,
with his keen, astute marked face, struggling between surprise, fear,
the sense of the ridiculous, and the certainty of losing his mistress;
the lady, foaming at the mouth, and shaking her clenched hand most
menacingly at her traducer; myself endeavouring to pacify, and acting,
as one does at such moments, mechanically, though one flatters one's
self afterwards that one acted solely from wisdom.

But the Abbe's mistress was by no means content with vindicating
herself: she retaliated, and gave so minute a description of the Abbe's
own qualities and graces, coupled with so any pleasing illustrations,