ed and flashed out for a
moment upon Jacques Haret, who looked at him with a singular smile,
and then Gaston by an evident effort, controlled himself and made no
reply. All this was quite without meaning except to those who knew
Gaston Cheverny as Francezka and I did, and as Jacques Haret did.
Neither Monsieur Voltaire nor Madame Villars saw anything in it,
except the most ordinary conversation. Monsieur Voltaire was smiling
and glancing toward the masks.

"Ah, ladies," he cried, "if you would but disclose your charming
selves we should have something more agreeable to talk about than the
winding of a muddy brook, or the right of the Honsbrouck to kill game
in the forest near-by."

Madame Villars waved her hand for Monsieur Voltaire to proceed, which
he did.

"Gentlemen," he said, "since these ladies are not yet pleased to tell
us who they are, let us, at least, try to entertain them by any means
in our power. Shall I read to you my last letter from the King of
Prussia, and my reply?"

Gaston and Jacques Haret at once agreed enthusiastically, and we, the
masked, rose and bowed our approval. Monsieur Voltaire went to his
_escritoire_, unlocked it, and took out two letters, which he read to
us in that noble great voice of his. The one from the King of Prussia
was a very good letter for a king to write. That man knew enough of
mankind always to advance fine sentiments, and was a man, although a
robber. Such was my master's opinion of Frederick, known as the
Great.

In reply to this letter was that celebrated one of Monsieur
Voltaire's, in which he says: "I respect metaphysical ideas; rays of
lightning they are in the midst of deep night. More, I think, is not
to be hoped from metaphysics. It does not seem likely that the first
principles of things will ever be known. The mice that nestle in some
little holes in an immense building know not whether it is eternal,
nor who the architect, nor why he built it. Such mice are we, and the
Divine Architect who built the universe has never, that I know of,
told His secret to one of us."

Voltaire paused at this and rested his head upon his hand.

"How sad it all is!" he cried, his great gloomy eloquent eyes fixed
upon the stars visible through the open doors.

There was a silence. Every person there, not excluding Monsieur
Voltaire and Jacques Haret, hoped differently from this melancholy
creed, but no one spoke until Jacques Haret said, with the gravity
under which he d