The astute and yet outwitted Beaumarchais had become thoroughly persuaded that not only was the Chevalier a female, but also one of the most unmanageable of her sex. For her own part, D’Eon was now as thoroughly convinced that the end of Beaumarchais’ mission would be the consummation of all her hopes, all her desires. She still needed a good sum of money for satisfying her creditors, and yet, what prospect had she of obtaining it from one whose harshness as taskmaster was only to be equalled by his exceeding great parsimony as purse-bearer! However stern and unflinching, Beaumarchais had seldom behaved otherwise than with consideration towards the distinguished heroine with whom he had undertaken to treat, whose past services and misfortunes had awakened in him a feeling of something more than ordinary interest, and which, through vanity, he had not the sense to dissemble. Keenly alive to all this, D’Eon was resolved to profit by the favourable impression she had made, therefore, changing her tone from bluster to gentleness, she coyly approached Beaumarchais:— ‘... I own that a woman sometimes finds herself in such an unfortunate position, that the force of circumstances obliges her to avail herself of services of which she is the first to feel the absurdity, because she knows what prompts the offer of them. The more clever and attentive the man who wishes to serve her, the greater her danger. But what thoughts do not these recollections awaken? They remind me that through blind confidence in you and in your promises, I revealed to you the mystery of my sex, that in token of gratitude I gave you my portrait, and that you promised yours as a mark of your regard. There never has been any other engagement between us. All you have alleged in addition, on the subject of our approaching marriage as related to me from Paris, cannot be considered by me otherwise than as idle jesting on your part. If you thought I was in earnest in offering a token of remembrance and gratitude, your conduct is pitiful; it is contemptible and faithless, such as no Parisian would forgive, however accustomed she might be to the ways now in fashion amongst husbands; how much less a maiden with so strict a sense of virtue as is mine, and whose spirit is haughty when her integrity and tender-heartedness is assailed. Why did I not remember that men are only fit to deceive womankind!... So far, I only thought of doing justice to your merits, admiring your talents and your generosity; I no doubt already loved you—but the feeling was so novel to me, and I was a long way from believing that love could be begotten in the midst of distress and pain....’ [Sidenote: RUMOURS OF MARRIAGE.]