I do not know if the Chevalière d’Eon recollects having seen the Chevalier d’Eon, surrounded by grenadiers, giving, in 1764, a page of the _Guerchiade_ to the Duc de Picquigny; but I _do_ know that the Duc de Chaulnes remembers it full well, and likewise his or her—for I no longer know where I am—handsome behaviour towards him. I am very much inclined to think, for instance, that your mutual friend will find much more of the Chevalier in the Chevalière than he desires. As for me, who am only a good-natured man, and your neighbour, I would fain know at what hour I may come and talk with Mademoiselle for a few moments, as I was wont to talk with Monsieur. As you have quite recently retired from politics, perhaps you will prefer to come to my house, which is only a few steps distant from yours. But I would rather spare you the trouble, provided, however, it be neither to-morrow, Saturday, nor Monday. I hope you will excuse these ifs and buts, which are quite out of place in a letter destined to express my profound gratitude for all the kindness you have shown me and for the friendship of the late Chevalier. I trust, Mademoiselle, you will do justice to my respect. D’Eon’s friends did not, indeed, know “where they were,” nor what style to assume. In a gracious letter of invitation to supper, the Marquise Le Camus, deeming his “society unquestionably desirable,” began as follows:— Brave Being, had I your facility for writing, I should not be in difficulties at the first word. I have, therefore, sought for the epithet which I think most suitable to what you deserve. I hope you will approve of my attributing to you no precise sex, by placing you above both, for fear of making a mistake. Those who had known d’Eon from his early childhood, and had never lost sight of him during his adventurous career, were still more embarrassed. Such was the case of Madame Campan’s father, M. Genêt, chief clerk at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, who confessed with kindly irony that the French language was wanting in epithets adapted to the condition of his strange correspondent. “In order to avoid styling cardinals _Monseigneur_ as they demand,” he says, “dukes write to them in Italian; and I, unique being, whose model I find only among the gods of the ancients, will make use of the English tongue, the appellatives of which have no precise gender, and which scarcely acknowledges any female besides a cat and a ship, to address you in a manner worthy of you and the sublime mysteries of which you are the emblem. I will therefore call you: _My Dear Friend_, meaning thereby: _mon cher ou ma chère amie, ad libitum_.”