All that we read in the Bible about the excesses which were punished
by the Deluge, and about the lewdness of Sodom and Gomorrah does not
approach the life now led in Paris. Out of nine young men of rank who
dined the other day with my grandson, the Duc de Chartres, seven had
the French disease. Is it not horrible? The majority of the people
here are occupied solely with their pleasures and debauchery; outside
of that they know nothing and care for nothing; they do not believe in
a future life; they imagine that they will end in death.
The Abbé Dubois sends me word he has nothing now to do with the post,
which concerns exclusively M. de Torcy; they are rotten eggs and
rancid butter, the pair of them; one is no better than the other, and
both would be more in their place on a gibbet than at Court, for they
are not worth the devil and are more treacherous than gallows-wood,
as Lenore would say. If they have the curiosity to read this letter
they will see the eulogy I make upon them, and they will recognize
the truth of our German proverb, "Listeners never hear any good of
themselves."
I know very well that we pay the postage on letters we receive, but as
to paying for those we put in the post, that is something new; I never
heard of it before in all my life.