M. de Bernis received me in his usual manner, that is more like a friend than a minister.  He asked me if I had any inclination for a secret mission.

“Have I the necessary talents?”

“I think so.”

“I have an inclination for all honest means of earning a livelihood, and as for my talents I will take your excellency’s opinion for granted.”

This last observation made him smile, as I had intended.

After a few words spoken at random on the memories of bygone years which time had not entirely defaced, the minister told me to go to the Abbe de la Ville and use his name.

This abbe, the chief permanent official of the foreign office, was a man of cold temperament, a profound diplomatist, and the soul of the department, and high in favour with his excellency the minister.  He had served the state well as an agent at The Hague, and his grateful king rewarded him by giving him a bishopric on the day of his death.  It was a little late, but kings have not always sufficient leisure to remember things.  His heir was a wealthy man named Gamier, who had formerly been chief cook at M. d’Argenson’s, and had become rich by profiting by the friendship the Abbe de la Ville had always had for him.  These two friends, who were nearly of the same age, had deposited their wills in the hands of the same attorney, and each had made the other his residuary legatee.

After the abbe had delivered a brief discourse on the nature of secret missions and the discretion necessary to those charged with them, he told me that he would let me know when anything suitable for me presented itself.

I made the acquaintance of the Abbe Galiani, the secretary of the Neapolitan Embassy.  He was a brother to the Marquis de Galiani, of whom I shall speak when we come to my Italian travels.  The Abbe Galiani was a man of wit.  He had a knack of making the most serious subjects appear comic; and being a good talker, speaking French with the ineradicable Neapolitan accent, he was a favourite in every circle he cared to enter.  The Abbe de la Ville told him that Voltaire had complained that his Henriade had been translated into Neapolitan verse in such sort that it excited laughter.

“Voltaire is wrong,” said Galiani, “for the Neapolitan dialect is of such a nature that it is impossible to write verses in it that are not laughable.  And why should he be vexed; he who makes people laugh is sure of being beloved.  The Neapolitan dialect is truly a singular one; we have it in translations of the Bible and of the Iliad, and both are comic.”

“I can imagine that the Bible would be, but I should not have thought that would have been the case with the Iliad.”

“It is, nevertheless.”

I did not return to Paris till the day before the departure of Mdlle. de la Meure, now Madame P——.  I felt in duty bound to go and see her, to give her my congratulations, and to wish her a pleasant journey.  I found her in good spirits and quite at her ease, and, far from being vexed at this, I was pleased, a certain sign that I was cured.  We talked without the slightest constraint, and I thought her husband a perfect gentleman.  He invited us to visit him at Dunkirk, and I promised to go without intending to do so, but the fates willed otherwise.