“Yes,” she replied.
Somewhat confused by this humiliating avowal, Madame Bodard returned to her place at a faro-table.
All the tables were full. I had nothing to do, no one to speak to, and I had just lost two thousand crowns to Monsieur de Laval. I flung myself on a sofa near the fireplace. Presently, if there was ever a man on earth most utterly astonished it was I, when, on looking up, I saw, seated on another sofa on the opposite side of the fireplace, Monsieur de Calonne, the comptroller-general. He seemed to be dozing, or else he was buried in one of those deep meditations which overtake statesmen. When I pointed out the famous minister to Beaumarchais, who happened to come near me at that moment, the father of Figaro explained the mystery of his presence in that house without uttering a word. He pointed first at my head, then at Bodard’s with a malicious gesture which consisted in turning to each of us two fingers of his hand while he kept the others doubled up. My first impulse was to rise and say something rousing to Calonne; then I paused, first, because I thought of a trick I could play the statesman, and secondly, because Beaumarchais caught me familiarly by the hand.
“Why do you do that, monsieur?” I said.
He winked at the comptroller.
“Don’t wake him,” he said in a low voice. “A man is happy when asleep.”
“Pray, is sleep a financial scheme?” I whispered.
“Indeed, yes!” said Calonne, who had guessed our words from the mere motion of our lips. “Would to God we could sleep long, and then the awakening you are about to see would never happen.”
“Monseigneur,” said the dramatist, “I must thank you—”
“For what?”