how to maintain an air of superiority which imposed on me.  Nothing else could have given him the courage to ask me to dinner when Petri was to be present.  I felt that I had been tricked, and I thought myself in duty bound to make him esteem me by my behaviour for the future.  It was gratitude on his part which made him smooth the way to my conquest of Veronique, who doubtless struck him as a fit and proper person to console me for the loss of Rosalie.

I did not take any part in the conversation at supper, but the marquis drew out Veronique, and she shone.  It was easy for me to see that she had more wit and knowledge of the world than Rosalie, but in my then state of mind this grieved rather than rejoiced me.  M. de Grimaldi seemed sorry to see me melancholy, and forced me, as it were, to join in the conversation.  As he was reproaching me in a friendly manner for my silence, Veronique said with a pleasing smile that I had a good reason to be silent after the declaration of love I had made to her, and which she had received so ill.  I was astonished at this, and said that I did not remember having ever made her such a declaration; but she made me laugh in spite of myself, when she said that her name that day was Lindane.

“Ah, that’s in a play,” said I, “in real life the man who declares his love in words is a simpleton; ’tis with deeds the true lover shews his love.”

“Very true, but your lady was frightened all the same.”

“No, no, Veronique; she is very fond of you.”

“I know she is; but I have seen her jealous of me.”

“If so, she was quite wrong.”

This dialogue, which pleased me little, fell sweetly on the marquis’s ears; he told me that he was going to call on Rosalie next morning, and that if I liked to give him a supper, he would come and tell me about her in the evening.  Of course I told him that he would be welcome.

After Veronique had lighted me to my room, she asked me to let my servants wait on me, as if she did so now that my lady was gone, people might talk about her.

“You are right,” said I, “kindly send Le Duc to me.”

Next morning I had a letter from Geneva.  It came from my Epicurean syndic, who had presented M. de Voltaire with my translation of his play, with an exceedingly polite letter from me, in which I begged his pardon for having taken the liberty of travestying his fine French prose in Italian.  The syndic told me plainly that M. de Voltaire had pronounced my translation to be a bad one.

My self-esteem was so wounded by this, and by his impoliteness in not answering my letter, with which he could certainly find no fault, whatever his criticism of my translation might be, that I became the sworn enemy of the great Voltaire.  I have censured him in all the works I have published, thinking that in wronging him I was avenging myself, to such an extent did passion blind me.  At the present time I feel