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 a severe exactness, though mixed with a politeness which she thought necessary not to frighten away her customers. This lady assumed the title of Marchioness of Parolignac. Her daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of age, was one of the punters, and took care to give her mamma an item, by signs, when any one of them attempted to repair the rigour of their ill fortune by a little innocent deception. The company were thus occupied when Candide, Martin, and the Abbé made their entrance: not a creature rose to salute them, or indeed took the least notice of them, being wholly intent upon the business in hand.

“Ah!’ said Candide, “my lady Baroness of Thunder-ten-tronckh would have behaved more civilly.”

However, the Abbé whispered in the ear of the marchioness, who half rose, and honoured Candide with a gracious smile and Martin with a dignified inclination of her head. She then ordered a seat for Candide and a hand of cards. He lost fifty thousand francs in two rounds. After that, they supped very elegantly, and every one was astounded that Candide was not disturbed at his loss. The servants said to each other in their servants’ language:

“This must be some English lord!”

Supper was like most others of this kind in Paris; at first there was silence, then there was an indistinguishable babel of words, then jokes, most of them insipid, false reports, bad reasonings, a little political talk, and much scandal. They spoke also of new books.

“Have you seen,” said the Abbé of Périgord, “the romance written by Monsieur Gauchat, the doctor of theology?”

“Yes,” replied one of the guests, “but I had not the patience to go through it. We have a throng of impertinent writers, but all of them together do not approach Gauchat, the doctor of theology, in impertinence. I am so sated with reading these piles of vile stuff that flood upon us that I even resolved to come here and make a party at faro.”

“But what say you to Archdeacon Trublet’s miscellanies?” said the Abbé. “Oh,” cried the Marchioness of Parolignac, “tedious creature. What pains he is at to tell one things that all the world knows. How he labours an argument that is hardly worth the slightest consideration! How absurdly he makes use of other people’s wit! How he mangles what he pilfers from them! How he disgusts me! But he will disgust me no more. It is enough to have read a few pages of the Archdeacon.”

There was at the table a person of learning and taste, who supported what 1em