s, but unfortunately
it gains nothing by them.

Next morning, just as I was going out to take my letters, the Baron de
Bercei, uncle of my friend Bavois, entered.

"I know," said he, "that my nephew owes his fortune to you; he is just
going to be made general, and I and all the family will be enchanted to
make your acquaintance. I have come to offer my services, and to beg that
you will dine with me to-day, and on any other day you please when you
have nothing better to do, and I hope you will always consider yourself
of the family.

"At the same time I beg of you not to tell anybody that my nephew has
become a Catholic, as according to the prejudices of the country it would
be a dishonour which would reflect on the whole family."

I accepted his invitation, and promised to say nothing about the
circumstance he had mentioned.

I left my letters of introduction, and I received everywhere a welcome of
the most distinguished kind. Madame de Gentil-Langalerie appeared the
most amiable of all the ladies I called on, but I had not time to pay my
court to one more than another. Every day politeness called me to some
dinner, supper, ball, or assembly. I was bored beyond measure, and I felt
inclined to say how troublesome it is to have such a welcome. I spent a
fortnight in the little town, where everyone prides himself on his
liberty, and in all my life I have never experienced such a slavery, for
I had not a moment to myself. I was only able to pass one night with my
sweetheart, and I longed to set off with her for Geneva. Everybody would
give me letters of introduction for M. de Voltaire, and by their
eagerness one would have thought the great man beloved, whereas all
detested him on account of his sarcastic humour.

"What, ladies!" said I, "is not M. de Voltaire good-natured, polite, and
affable to you who have been kind enough to act in his plays with him?"

"Not in the least. When he hears us rehearse he grumbles all the time. We
never say a thing to please him: here it is a bad pronunciation, there a
tone not sufficiently passionate, sometimes one speaks too softly,
sometimes too loudly; and it's worse when we are acting. What a hubbub
there is if one add a syllable, or if some carelessness spoil one of his
verses. He frightens us. So and so laughed badly; so and so in Alzire had
only pretended to weep."

"Does he want you to weep really?"

"Certainly. He will have real tears. He says that if an actor wants to