A certain Hungarian traveller, a man of consequence in his country, but not particularly wise, had fruitlessly tried to be introduced, without finding any one at Geneva, willing to undertake the task, as they were all afraid Voltaire would be rude to him.  A young man, who heard of this, engaged to procure the stranger an interview with Voltaire; and on the day appointed, contrived to have him conveyed out of town to a good-looking residence, where well-dressed servants received him at the door, and ushered him up stairs in due form.  Here then at last he found himself, as he thought, tete-a-tete with Voltaire.  The malade de Ferney, personated by our young friend, was lying down on a sofa, wrapped up in a damask robe-de-chambre, a night-cap of black velvet, with gold lace, on his head, or rather on the top of an immense periwig, a la Louis XIV., in the midst of which his little, sallow and deeply-wrinkled visage seemed buried; a table was near him, covered with papers, and the curtains being drawn, made the room rather dark.  The philosopher apologized in a hollow voice, interrupted by occasional fits of coughing; he was ill bien malade, could not get up, begged the stranger to be seated, asked questions about the countries he had visited, made him tell his adventures, those of gallantry particularly, and was himself most facetious, and most profanely witty.  The Hungarian delighted, and far more at ease than he had imagined possible, casting a glance on the papers, ventured to inquire what new work?  “Ah, nothing!”—­le faible Enfant de ma Vieillesse—­a tragedy.  “May I ask the subject?” “The subject is wholly Genevan,” replied Voltaire, “the name, Empro-Giro, and the dramatis personae Carin-Caro, Dupins-Simon, and Carcail Briffon, &c.”  He then began to repeat, with great animation, a number of passages, to which his visitor listened in perfect raptures, but drew, meanwhile, a snuff-box from his pocket, and began to look attentively on him and on a picture on the lid; thus confronted with a portrait of Voltaire, and compared face to face, was a trial for which our mimic was not prepared, and his courage nearly forsook him, yet he kept up appearances, only coughing more, and ranting on the high-sounding lines of his Empro-Giro.  The Hungarian, not undeceived by this close examination, replaced the snuff-box in his pocket, declaring it to be the best likeness he had ever seen.  He rose at last, thanked his friend Voltaire, kissed his hand respectfully, and went away, distributing to the servants he met on the stairs liberal tokens of his satisfaction.  These servants were the intimate friends and companions of the chief actor, and one of them, his brother, unwilling to carry the joke to the length of pocketing the money of their dupe, they contrived to give him a dinner at a tavern, where he was made to tell the story of his visit to Voltaire, and express his admiration of the great man.  The latter heard of this, was much amused, and desired to see his double, told him he would make a bargain with him—­half his fame for half the tiresome visitors it procured him.