“Oh, the wretch! it is the Abbe Dubois; a living proof of the folly of the French proverb, which says that Mercuries should not be made du bois. Never was there a Mercury equal to the Abbe,—but, do look at that old man to the left,—he is one of the most remarkable persons of the age.”
“What! he with the small features, and comely countenance, considering his years?”
“The same,” said Hamilton; “it is the notorious Choisi. You know that he is the modern Tiresias, and has been a woman as well as man.”
“How do you mean?”
“Ah, you may well ask!” cried Madame de Cornuel. “Why, he lived for many years in the disguise of a woman, and had all sorts of curious adventures.”
“Mort Diable!” cried Hamilton; “it was entering your ranks, Madame, as a spy. I hear he makes but a sorry report of what he saw there.”
“Come, Count Antoine,” cried the lively de Cornuel, “we must not turn our weapons against each other; and when you attack a woman’s sex you attack her individually. But what makes you look so intently, Count Devereux, at that ugly priest?”
The person thus flatteringly designated was Montreuil; he had just caught my eye, among a group of men who were conversing eagerly.
“Hush! Madame,” said I, “spare me for a moment;” and I rose, and mingled with the Abbe’s companions.
“So, you have only arrived to-day,” I heard one of them say to him.