greatest affliction of mind, call to my recollection the last moments of this worthy man, who still received with so much pleasure, Leneips and myself, the only friends whom the sight of his sufferings did not separate from him until his last hour, when he was reduced to devouring with his eyes the repasts he had placed before us, scarcely having the power of swallowing a few drops of weak tea, which came up again a moment afterwards.  But before these days of sorrow, how many have I passed at his house, with the chosen friends he had made himself!  At the head of the list I place the Abbe Prevot, a very amiable man, and very sincere, whose heart vivified his writings, worthy of immortality, and who, neither in his disposition nor in society, had the least of the melancholy coloring he gave to his works.  Procope, the physician, a little Esop, a favorite with the ladies; Boulanger, the celebrated posthumous author of ’Despotisme Oriental’, and who, I am of opinion extended the systems of Mussard on the duration of the world.  The female part of his friends consisted of Madam Denis, niece to Voltaire, who, at that time, was nothing more than a good kind of woman, and pretended not to wit:  Madam Vanloo, certainly not handsome, but charming, and who sang like an angel:  Madam de Valmalette, herself, who sang also, and who, although very thin, would have been very amiable had she had fewer pretensions.  Such, or very nearly such, was the society of M. Mussard, with which I should had been much pleased, had not his conchyliomania more engaged my attention; and I can say, with great truth, that, for upwards of six months, I worked with him in his cabinet with as much pleasure as he felt himself.

He had long insisted upon the virtue of the waters of Passy, that they were proper in my case, and recommended me to come to his house to drink them.  To withdraw myself from the tumult of the city, I at length consented, and went to pass eight or ten days at Passy, which, on account of my being in the country, were of more service to me than the waters I drank during my stay there.  Mussard played the violincello, and was passionately found of Italian music.  This was the subject of a long conversation we had one evening after supper, particularly the ‘opera-buffe’ we had both seen in Italy, and with which we were highly delighted.  My sleep having forsaken me in the night, I considered in what manner it would be possible to give in France an idea of this kind of drama.  The ‘Amours de Ragonde’ did not in the least resemble it.  In the morning, whilst I took my walk and drank the waters, I hastily threw together a few couplets to which I adapted such airs as occurred to me at the moments.  I scribbled over what I had composed, in a kind of vaulted saloon at the end of the garden, and at tea.  I could not refrain from showing the airs to Mussard and to Mademoiselle du Vernois, his ‘gouvernante’, who was a very good and amiable girl.  Three pieces of