D’Eon had so ardently wished for and so cleverly planned this apotheosis that, of course, he meant to play a part in it. So he never missed an opportunity of escaping from his retreat; and, as Genêt said of him, “he was as fond of Paris as any dandy.” Among his old acquaintances, the Comtesse de Boufflers, the witty mistress of the Prince de Conti, “the idol of the Temple,” as Madame du Deffand called her, had been one of the first to express a wish to meet again the former minister plenipotentiary by whose side she had done the honours of the embassy in London: M. d’Usson has told me, Mademoiselle, that you have not forgotten that we had the pleasure of meeting you in England, and that you seemed anxious to renew the acquaintance then begun. I, too, am most anxious to see again one who will be for ever famous on account of the remarkable events of her life as well as her many great qualities, and I shall be delighted if you will come and dine with me at the Temple next Friday. In truth the audacious adventurer had become the favourite guest, the “lion” for whose presence at their receptions hostesses contended. On the little invitation-cards, which d’Eon religiously kept, appear the names of the cleverest women and the most distinguished people. The most inaccessible drawing-rooms opened their doors to this phenomenon, and not one of the least curious signs of the levity of the eighteenth century may be found in this childish credulity of a society which openly paraded its scepticism. The decadent and exhausted intellects of that period, divorced from all serious ideas and indifferent to both the advancement of science and to the beauty of art, concerned themselves with nothing but the bizarre. At a time when they were unable to read the signs of the tremendous social upheaval which was germinating around them, idlers at the court and unattached officers made _bon-mots_ and told highly spiced stories for the amusement of the ladies who held what was known as a _bureau d’esprit_. D’Eon excelled in this kind of thing; his imagination, his inexhaustible spirits, his unexpected sallies made his audience forget the occasional coarseness of his oft-told tales. He attracted, in short, by a carefully guarded and mysterious eccentricity. He was even liked for the admirably feigned modesty which made him appear only at small social gatherings; for he prided himself on avoiding inquisitive people, and on being so indifferent to the attention he attracted that his friends found it necessary to press him to keep his engagements. “The Duc de Luynes is longing to see you, and so is his father-in-law, M. de Laval,” wrote his friend Reine. “He told me he had asked you to dine with him; since you are in Paris, do go to see the Duchess, and be so good as to present our respects to her.”