"No," said she, "he is a physician to the Court pages. He is clever and amusing, I assure you; and he has written books too. He is a very learned physicist." "If his literary style is like his face!----" said I, smiling. "And the other?" "What other?" "That little prim man, as neat as a doll, and who looks as if he drank verjuice." "He is a man of good family," said she. "He has come from some province--I forget which.--Ah! yes, from Artois. He is in Paris to wind up some affair that concerns the Cardinal, and His Eminence has just introduced him to Monsieur de Saint-James. They have agreed in choosing Monsieur de Saint-James to be arbitrator. In that the gentleman from the provinces has not shown much wisdom. What are people thinking of when they place a case in that man's hands? He is as gentle as a lamb, and as shy as a girl. His Eminence is most kind to him." "What is it about?" said I. "Three hundred thousand livres," said she. "What! a lawyer?" I asked, with a little start of astonishment. "Yes," replied she. And, somewhat disturbed by having to make this humiliating confession, Madame Bodard returned to her game of faro. Every table was made up. I had nothing to do or to say. I had just lost two thousand crowns to Monsieur de Laval, whom I had met in a courtesan's drawing-room. I went to take a seat in a deep chair near the fire. If ever on this earth there was an astonished man, it certainly was I on discovering that my opposite neighbor was the Controller-General. Monsieur de Calonne seemed to be drowsy, or else he was absorbed in one of those brown studies which come over a statesman. When I pointed out the Minister to Beaumarchais, who came to speak to me, the creator of _Figaro_ explained the mystery without speaking a word. He pointed first to my head and then to Bodard's in an ingeniously significant way, by directing his thumb to one and his little finger to the other, with the rest of the fingers closed. My first impulse was to go and say something sharp to Calonne, but I sat still; in the first place, because I intended to play the favorite a trick, and also because Beaumarchais had somewhat familiarly seized my hand. "What is it, monsieur?" said I. With a wink he indicated the Minister. "Do not wake him," he said in a low tone; "we may be only too thankful when he sleeps." "But even sleeping is a scheme of finance," said I. "Certainly it is," replied the statesman, who had read our words by the mere motion of our lips. "And would to God we could sleep a long time; there would not be such an awakening as you will see!" "Monseigneur," said the play-writer, "I owe you some thanks." "What for?" "Monsieur de Mirabeau is gone to Berlin. I do not know whether in this matter of the Waters we may not both be drowned." "You have too much memory and too little gratitude," replied the Minister drily, vexed at this betrayal of one of his secrets before me.