The things we do!

He described energetically that splendid run
of luck which had set in at Baden with Clive's loan: his winnings, at
that fortunate period, had carried him through the winter with
considerable brilliancy, but bouillotte and Mademoiselle Atala, of the
Varietes (une ogresse, mon cher, who devours thirty of our young men
every year in her cavern, in the Rue de Breda), had declared against him,
and the poor Vicomte's pockets were almost empty when he came to London.
He was amiably communicative regarding himself, and told us his virtues
and his faults (if indeed a passion for play and for women could be
considered as faults in a gay young fellow of two or three and forty),
with a like engaging frankness. He would weep in describing his angel
mother: he would fly off again into tirades respecting the wickedness,
the wit, the extravagance, the charms of the young lady of the Varietes.
He would then (in conversation) introduce us to Madame de Florac, nee
Higg, of Manchesterre. His prattle was incessant, and to my friend Mr.


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