rd this day that if I was resolved on my
enterprise for Courland, all she had--her plate and jewels--should be
pledged for me. Does not that shine bright even in the light of the
stars?"

I answered with something I had once heard old Pere Bourdaloue thunder
forth from the pulpit in Notre Dame, about good deeds outshining the
sun; at which my master laughed, and accused me of wanting to join
Monsieur de Rance in his dumb cloister of La Trappe. Then, as if
shaking off the spell cast upon him by the stars, he began to talk of
the most trifling things on earth--about Monsieur Voltaire, for
example.

"My coach is ordered to take us to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's," he
said. "I dare say that scoundrel of a Voltaire will be there--as you
say you saw him with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur in the Hotel Kirkpatrick
garden. But I know he is under orders for England, and I will tickle
him with a bunch of brambles by telling him that I shall mention to
Cardinal Fleury that I saw him. Babache, I swear I am a little afraid
of that thing of madrigals, as I call Voltaire. Those fellows who can
write can always make out a case for themselves. I would as soon have
Voltaire in London as in Paris--sooner at Constantinople than
either."

I went then to see if the coach was ready, and soon we were rolling
along toward the Marais. My head was busy with our expedition to
Courland, but it did not make me forget for one moment the soft
splendor of Mademoiselle Capello's eyes, nor Gaston Cheverny's hurt. I
privately resolved to take Gaston Cheverny with us to Courland if the
wit of man could compass it.

Mademoiselle Lecouvreur lived then in one of those tall, old houses,
not far from the garden in which we had played together as children.
When we reached the place and were mounting the stairs, what should we
see but Monsieur Voltaire's long legs skipping up ahead of us! So he
was still skulking in Paris! I knew the sort of persons I should meet
with in that saloon--and they were there. First, Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur herself, fresh from the theater; the Marshal, Duc de
Noailles, who called my master "My Saxe," and loved him well; old
Marshal Villars, the Duc de Richelieu, an actor or two, some fine
ladies, a horde of small fry and Monsieur Voltaire.

As he was supposed to be safely locked up in the Bastille until he
should leave for England, his presence was a good deal of a surprise,
especially to the Duc de Richelieu; but Mademoiselle Lecouvreur'