rom the thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth cantos, in which the divine poet
speaks of the conversation of Astolpho with St. John and he did it
without missing a single life or committing the slightest fault against
the laws of prosody. He then pointed out the beauties of the passages
with his natural insight and with a great man's genius. I could not have
had anything better from the lips of the most skilled commentators in
Italy. I listened to him with the greatest attention, hardly daring to
breath, and waiting for him to make a mistake, but I had my trouble for
nothing. I turned to the company crying that I was more than astonished,
and that all Italy should know what I had seen. "And I, sir," said the
great man, "will let all Europe know of the amends I owe to the greatest
genius our continent has produced."

Greedy of the praise which he deserved so well, Voltaire gave me the next
day his translation which Ariosto begins thus:

"Quindi avvien the tra principi a signori."

At the end of the recitation which gained the applause of all who heard
it, although not one of them knew Italian, Madame Denis, his niece, asked
me if I thought the passage her uncle had just recited one of the finest
the poet had written.

"Yes, but not the finest."

"It ought to be; for without it Signor Lodovico would not have gained his
apotheosis."

"He has been canonised, then? I was not aware of that."

At these words the laugh, headed by Voltaire, went for Madame Denis.
Everybody laughed except myself, and I continued to look perfectly
serious.

Voltaire was vexed at not seeing me laugh like the rest, and asked me the
reason.

"Are you thinking," said he, "of some more than human passage?"

"Yes," I answered.

"What passage is that?"

"The last thirty-six stanzas of the twenty-third canto, where the poet
describes in detail how Roland became mad. Since the world has existed no
one has discovered the springs of madness, unless Ariosto himself, who
became mad in his old age. These stanzas are terrible, and I am sure they
must have made you tremble."

"Yes, I remember they render love dreadful. I long to read them again."

"Perhaps the gentleman will be good enough to recite them," said Madame
Denis, with a side-glance at her uncle.

"Willingly," said I, "if you will have the goodness to listen to me."

"You have learn them by heart, then, have you?" said Voltaire.

"Yes, it was a pleasure and no trouble. Since I was sixteen