One of the first engagements they attended was an evening assembly at the salon of Madame Marency, a lady of fortune much-famed for her entertainments, residing in La Rue de Vaugirard, near the Palais du Luxemburg. The room, already occupied by upwards of thirty by the time the Darcys arrived, rivalled Versailles in its opulence. Mahogany walls were bordered with gold, figurines ornamented every corner, and the furniture was dressed in a red velvet that struggled for notice under its burthen of ornament—braids, tassels, festoons, and other passamenterie. As the Darcys were announced, a group of affected young men occupying a corner of the room panelled by enormous looking-glasses—which permitted frequent consultation of the appearance of their neck-cloths and the height of their hair—turned to bow. Having paid the Darcys the briefest of compliments, they returned to an animated conversation about the great men of French literature, a select group comprised of only one sex. Darcy raised his eyebrows as he heard one of them announce that Voltaire was infinitely superior to Shakespeare, and continued to find his way to the opposite side of the room, where he was soon in earnest conversation with an handsome gentleman.

“Monseiur le Comte, c’est vousf” asked Darcy, bowing to the gentleman.

“Mais oui, moi-même,” replied the Comte. “And you are the illustrious Mr. Darcy, I presume?” answered the Comte in perfect English. “I regret that you find me at this place, and amongst this insupportable crowd! However, having left her card, my mother and I were delighted to hear of your acceptance.”

The Comte d’Estrouville was about the same age as Mr. Darcy—a little younger perhaps, but the years of terror had aged many of the French nobility beyond their true ages—respectably, but fashionably dressed in a dark coat and grey trousers, with light brown hair, and the complexion of a man who was often out-of-doors. He was a remarkably well-looking man, with intelligent, expressive eyes and a manner more akin to an Englishman in its openness and candour. Given the deference with which he was regarded by the other gentlemen and ladies surrounding him, he was obviously a man of some importance. The Comte and Mr. Darcy had been in correspondence for some time regarding the management of estates; this intercourse had been met with much mutual approbation, and both gentlemen shewed a genuine delight in the opportunity to further their acquaintance. Darcy liked him at once, finding his conversation to be both interesting and intelligent, a rarity, it seemed, in the drawing-rooms of Paris.

“I fear the task was easier than you perceive—you appeared to be the only man in the room speaking any sense,” replied Darcy with a smile.