Yet，Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into his affairs，both private and public；and he had，as to both classes of affairs，allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances public，because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them，and must consequently let them out to somebody who could；as to finances private，because Farmer-Generals were rich，and Monseigneur，after generations of great luxury and expense，was growing poor.Hence Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent，while there was yet time to ward off the impending veil，the cheapest garment she could wear，and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General，poor in family.Which Farmer-General，carrying an appropriate cane with a golden apple on the top of it，was now among the company in the outer rooms，much prostrated before by mankind—always excepting superior mankind of the blood of Monseigneur，who，his own wife included，looked down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his stables，twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls，six body-women waited on his wife.As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and forage where he could，the Farmer-General—howsoever his matrimonial relations conduced to social morality was at least the greatest reality among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
For，the rooms，though a beautiful scene to look at，and adorned with every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could achieve，were，in truth，not a sound business；considered with any reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere（and not so far off，either，but that the watching towers of Notre Dame，almost equidistant from the two extremes，could see them both），they would have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business—if that could have been anybody's business，at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers destitute of military knowledge；naval officers with no idea of a ship；civil officers without a notion of affairs；brazen ecclesiastics，of the worst world worldly，with sensual eyes，loose tongues，and looser lives；all totally unfit for their several callings，all lying horribly in pretending to belong to them，but all nearly or remotely of the order of Monseigneur，and therefore foisted on all public employments from which anything was to be got；thesewere to be told off by the score and the score.People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State，yet equally unconnected with anything that was real，or with lives passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end，were no less abundant.Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies for imaginary disorders that never existed，smiled upon their courtly patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur.Projectors who had discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the State was touched，except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to root out a single sin，poured their distracting babble into any ears they could lay hold of，at the reception of Monseigneur.Unbelieving Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words，and making card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with，talked with Unbelieving Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals，at this wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur.Exquisite gentlemen of the finest breeding，which was at that remarkable time—and has been since—to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural subject of human interest，were in the most exemplary state of exhaustion，at the hotel of Monseigneur.Such homes had these various notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris，that the spies among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur—forming a goodly half of the polite company—would have found it hard to discover among the angels of that sphere one solitary wife，who，in her manners and appearance，owned to being a Mother.Indeed，except for the mere act of bringing a troublesome creature into this world—which does not go far towards the realisation of the name of mother—there was no such thing known to the fashion.Peasant women kept theunfashionable babies close，and brought them up，and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and supped as at twenty.
The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional people who had had，for a few years，some vague misgiving in them that things in general were going rather wrong.As a promising way of setting them right，half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic sect of Convulsionists，and were even then considering within themselves whether they should foam，rage，roar，and turn cataleptic on the spot—thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the Future，for Monseigneur's guidance.Besides these Dervishes，were other three who had rushed into another sect，which mended matters with a jargon about'the Centre of Truth：'holding that Man had got out of the Centre of Truth—which did not need much demonstration—but had not got out of the Circumference，and that he was to be kept from flying out of the Circumference，and was even to be shoved back into the Centre，by fasting and seeing of spirits.Among these，accordingly，much discoursing with spirits went on—and it did a world of good which never became manifest.