At this reply, the quickness of which constituted its chief merit, everybody present began to laugh and applaud.

No more was said of literature, and I became a silent actor till M. de Voltaire retired, when I approached Madame Denis, and asked her if she had any commands for me at Rome.  I went home well pleased at having compelled the giant of intellect to listen to reason, as I then thought foolishly enough; but there was a rankling feeling left in my heart against him which made me, ten years later, criticise all he had written.

I am sorry now for having done so, though on reading my censures over again I find that in many places I was right.  I should have done better, however, to have kept silence, to have respected his genius, and to have suspected my own opinions.  I should have considered that if it had not been for those quips and cranks which made me hate him on the third day, I should have thought him wholly sublime.  This thought alone should have silenced me, but an angry man always thinks himself right.  Posterity on reading my attack will rank me among the Zoyluses, and the humble apology I now make to the great man’s shades may not be read.

If we meet in the halls of Pluto, the more peccant parts of our mortal nature purged away, all will be made up; he will receive my heartfelt apologies, and he will be my friend, I his sincere admirer.

I spent part of the night and the whole of the following day in writing down my conversations with Voltaire, and they amounted nearly to a volume, of which I have only given a mere abridgment.  Towards the evening my Epicurean syndic called on me, and we went to sup with the three nymphs, and for five hours we indulged in every species of wantonness, in which I had a somewhat fertile imagination.  On leaving I promised to call on them again on my return from Rome, and I kept my word.  I set out the next day, after dining with the syndic, who accompanied me as far as Anneci, where I spent the night.  Next day I dined at Aix, with the intention of lying at Chamberi, but my destiny ordered otherwise.

Aix is a villainous hole where the mineral waters attract people of fashion towards the end of the summer—­a circumstance of which I was then ignorant.  I dined hastily, wishing to set out immediately for Chamberi, when in the middle of my repast a crowd of fashionable people burst into the room.  I looked at them without stirring, replying with an inclination of the head to the bows which some of them made me.  I soon discovered from their conversation that they had all come to take the waters.  A gentleman of a fine presence came up to me and asked if I were going to Turin; I answered that my way was to Marseilles.

Their dinner was served, and everybody sat down.  Among them I noticed several pleasant-looking ladies, with gentlemen who were either their husbands or their lovers.  I concluded that I might find some amusement with them, as they all spoke French with that easy tone of good society which is so attractive, and I felt that I should be inclined to stay without much pressing, for that day at all events.