y took him, became a devil; who transformed wealth
into poverty, fortune into misfortune, happiness into despair. "You play
with us--and we are to worship you? To doubt your existence is the only
resource left open to us if we are not to blaspheme you! You do not
exist; for if you did exist, I should curse you!"

Shaking his clenched fists heavenward, he rose to his feet.
Involuntarily, a detested name rose to his lips. Voltaire! Yes, now he
was in the right mood to finish his polemic against the sage of Ferney.
To finish it? No, now was the time to begin it. A new one! A different
one! One in which the ridiculous old fool should be shown up as he
deserved: for his pusillanimity, his half-heartedness, his subservience.
He an unbeliever? A man of whom the latest news was that he was on
excellent terms with the priests, that he visited church, and on feast
days actually went to confession! He a heretic? He was a chatterbox, a
boastful coward, nothing more! But the day of reckoning was at hand,
and soon there would be nothing left of the great philosopher but a
quill-driving buffoon.

What airs he had given himself, this worthy M. Voltaire! "My dear M.
Casanova, I am really vexed with you. What concern have I with the works
of Merlin? It is your fault that I have wasted four hours over such
nonsense."

All a matter of taste, excellent M. Voltaire! People will continue to
read Merlin long after _La Pucelle_ has been forgotten. Possibly they
will continue to prize my sonnets, the sonnets you returned to me with
a shameless smile, and without saying a word about them. But these
are trifles. Do not let us spoil a great opportunity because of our
sensitiveness as authors. We are concerned with philosophy--with God! We
shall cross swords, M. Voltaire, unless you die before I have a chance
to deal with you.

He was already in the mind to begin his new polemic, when it occurred to
him that the messenger was waiting for an answer. He hastily indited
a letter to the old duffer Bragadino, a letter full of hypocritical
humility and simulated delight. With joy and gratitude he accepted the
pardon of the Council. He would expect the remittance by return of post,
so that with all possible speed he might present himself before his
patrons, and above all before the honored old family friend, Bragadino.

When he was in the act of sealing the letter, someone knocked gently at
the door. At the word, Olivo's eldest daughter, the thirteen-