d 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 that even
if my works survive, these feeble stings of mine can hurt nobody but
myself. Posterity will class me amongst the Zoiluses whose own impotence
made them attack this great man to whom civilization and human happiness
owe so much. The only crime that can truthfull