t and encourage him by all
means she could devise, but the monarch did not understand her. The
duchesse then addressed a few words, which she hoped would lead to
an explanation, but, to her dismay, his majesty did not appear to
understand her. Madame de Grammont was furious at this affair. The duc
d'Aiguillon, who was close to her, had seen all, heard all, and related
particulars to me. The same day I told the king of my trick and
its success. He laughed excessively, and then scolded me for at all
compromising his Danish majesty.

"How, sire?" was my reply. "I did not sign his name; I have not forged
his signature. The vanity of the duchesse has alone caused all the
ridiculous portion of this joke. So much the worse for her if she did
not succeed."

I did not, however, limit my revenge to this. A second letter, in
the same hand, was addressed to my luckless enemy. This time she was
informed that she been made a butt of, and mystified. I learned from M.
de Sartines, who, after our compact, gave me details of all, the methods
she had pursued to detect the author of these two epistles, and put
a termination to all these inquiries, by denouncing myself to M. de
Sartines; who then gave such a turn to the whole matter, that the
duchesse could never arrive at the truth.

Voltaire, in the meantime, was not slow in reply; and as I imagine that
you will not be sorry to read his letter, I transcribe it for you:--

"MONSIEUR LE DUC,--I am a lost, destroyed man. If I had strength enough
to fly, I do not know where I should find courage to take refuge. I!
Good God! I am suspected of having attacked that which, in common with
all France, I respect! When there only remains to me the smallest power
of utterance, but enough to chant a _De profundis,_ that I should employ
it in howling at the most lovely and amiable of females! Believe me,
monsieur le duc, that it is not at the moment when a man is about to
render up his soul, that a man of my good feeling would outrage the
divinity whom he adores. No, I am not the author of the '_Cour du Roi
Petaud._' The verses of this rhapsody are not worth much, it is true;
but indeed they are not mine: they are too miserable, and of too bad a
style. All this vile trash spread abroad in my name, all those pamphlets
without talent, make me lose my senses, and now I have scarcely enough
left to defend myself with. It is on you, monsieur le duc, that I rely;
do not refuse to be the advocate of an unf