Choiseul was the man who almost averted the French Revolution. He was the first of the real friends of Liberty not dressed as a Philosopher, and the greatest Minister after Colbert. He had his littlenesses, his weaknesses; he made great mistakes, allowed impulse to sway him occasionally, and could be extremely pitiless on occasion. He did not disdain to use the meanest weapons, yet he was great and far more human than the majority of the men of his time, than Terray, or de Maupeou, or de Sartines, or d’Aiguillon, or d’Argeson, more human even than the men who were beginning to babble about Humanity. He did not write “The Social Contract,” but he destroyed the tyranny of the Jesuits in France. He did not profess to love his own family, but at least he did not desert his own children after the fashion of M. Jean Jacques. To-night, as he stood to receive his guests, he looked precisely the same as on the last occasion, less than a week ago, when, standing in his own house, he had received his guests with the certainty in his mind that the Presentation would not take place. But he showed nothing of his defeat. De Sartines was among the first to arrive. As Minister of Police it was his duty to guard the safety of the Prime Minister of France on all occasions, and more especially at State functions, balls, and receptions, even when these receptions, functions or balls took place at the Minister’s own house. There were always dangerous people ready for mischief—Damiens was an example of that—lunatics and fanatics, and to-night, as usual, several agents of the Hôtel de Sartines were among the servants of Choiseul and indistinguishable from them. But to-night, for certain reasons, the occasion was so especial that Lavenne was present, watchful, seeing all things, but unseen, or rather unnoticed, by everyone. Sartines passed with the first of the crowd into the great _salon_ where Madame de Choiseul was receiving. Here, when he had made his bow, he found himself buttonholed by M. de Duras, the old gentleman who knew everything about everyone and their affairs. The same, it will be remembered, who had explained Camille Fontrailles to Camus on that night of the ball. “Ah, M. le Comte,” cried this purveyor of news, “I thought I was too early, but now that I see you, I feel my position more regular. I came here chiefly to-night to make sure that Madame la Princesse de Guemenée was not present. You have heard the news? No? Well, there has been a great quarrel. It is entirely between ourselves, but the Princesse de Guemenée and Madame de Choiseul have quarrelled, so much so that the Princesse has not been invited.” “Indeed!” said de Sartines, “I have heard nothing of it.” “All the same, it is a fact—and the fact is rather scandalous. It was this way——” “Madame la Princesse de Guemenée,” came the voice of the usher as the Princesse, smiling, entered and made her bow to Madame de Choiseul. “Yes,” said Sartines, “you were going to say?”