Shortly afterwards Vincent entered--"I have a dinner invitation for both of us to-day," said he; "you will come ?" "Most certainly," replied I; "but who is the person we are to honour ?" "A Madame Laurent," replied Vincent; "one of those ladies only found at Paris, who live upon anything rather than their income.

She keeps a tolerable table, haunted with Poles, Russians, Austrians, and idle Frenchmen, peregrinae gentis amaenum hospitium.

As yet, she has not the happiness to be acquainted with any Englishmen, (though she boards one of our countrywomen) and (as she is desirous of making her fortune as soon as possible) she is very anxious of having that honour.

She has heard vast reports of our wealth and wisdom, and flatters herself that we are so many ambulatory Indies: in good truth, a Frenchwoman thinks she is never in want of a fortune as long as there is a rich fool in the world.
"'Stultitiam patiuntur, opes,' is her hope; and "'Ut tu fortunam, sic nos te, Celse, feremus,' is her motto." "Madame Laurent!" repeated I, "why, surely that is the name of Mons.
Margot's landlady." "I hope not," cried Vincent, "for the sake of our dinner; he reflects no credit on her good cheer-- "'Who eats fat dinners, should himself be fat.'" "At all events," said I, "we can try the good lady for once.

I am very anxious to see a countrywoman of ours, probably the very one you speak of, whom Mons.