‘I can only say that M. D’Eon arrived at Staunton on the 2nd, feeling very unwell, and he is so still.... I do not find that he has behaved ungratefully towards you, but I find that he has not sufficient money _to pay what he owes me_. He has told me of some differences of opinion with you in regard to an article that has appeared in the papers, on the policies made as to his sex, which, I hope, will not lead to any rupture between you.’ The surrender of the precious deposit which had constituted his strength over the space of many years, and emboldened him in his seeming insubordination and fearless demeanour towards the ministers of France, had brought the affairs of D’Eon to a crisis, where the making or unmaking of him for the remainder of his days depended almost entirely upon submission to the man into whose hands was committed his destiny, and in whom he himself pretended to confide. The Chevalier’s meekness whilst settling terms with Beaumarchais was, it might be supposed, an exemplification of the moral derived from La Fontaine’s fable— ‘Patience et longueur de temps Font plus que force ni que rage.’ But D’Eon’s submission was a sham, for his mind was racked with positive pain—suffering which grew in intensity the more completely he realised the wretchedness of his situation. He had allowed himself to be persuaded to admit that he belonged to the female sex, and to pledge himself to the assumption, for life, of female attire; irrevocable facts, under pain of forfeiting the only means of existence left to him! Yet there remained matters touching his honour in which he knew he should never be able to vindicate himself, from the moment it became publicly established that the Chevalier D’Eon was no longer a man; because it would be impossible for him, being a woman, to take the law into his own hands as was his wont in certain cases. Whether he were a male or a female, the King cared little enough, but the Chevalier was to be put into petticoats by his orders, that the scandal in which a late French ambassador in London had figured so objectionably, should never by any possibility be revived. Beaumarchais had stated what was perfectly true—D’Eon’s blood boiled at the bare mention of the name of Guerchy—while the vehement longing of the young count to avenge his father had never been gratified, and his tongue had not ceased openly to slander the enemy he would chastise. D’Eon had so far failed also in disabusing the public mind generally of the imputation of his being concerned in the gambling policies on his sex, and had not succeeded in lifting himself above the cloud that tarnished his reputation and saddened his days. Moreover, in charging him with having failed to render certain papers which were found to be missing, upon the verification of the inventories at Versailles, Beaumarchais had exercised his authority oppressively and offensively. D’Eon would have called him to account