him home on those
kind terms, as from a Universe all of Opera. 'Wait till 1759,--till
1789!' murmured the Devil to himself."

TRAGIC NEWS, THAT CONCERN US, OF VOLTAIRE AND OTHERS.

About two months after those Saxe-Friedrich hospitalities at Sans-Souci,
Voltaire, writing, late at night, from the hospitable Palace of Titular
Stanislaus, has these words, to his trusted D'Argental:--

LUNEVILLE, 4th SEPTEMBER, 1749.... "Madame du Chatelet, this night,
while scribbling over her NEWTON, felt a little twinge; she called
a waiting-maid, who had only time to hold out her apron, and catch a
little Girl, whom they carried to its cradle. The Mother arranged her
papers, went to bed; and the whole of that (TOUT CELA) is sleeping like
a dormouse, at the hour I write to you." My guardian angels, "poor I
sha'n't have so easy a delivery of my CATILINA" (my ROME SAVED, for
the confusion of old Crebillon and the cabals)! [--OEuvres,--lxxiv. 57
(Voltaire to D'Argental).]...

And then, six days later, hear another Witness present there:--

LUNEVILLE PALACE, 10th SEPTEMBER. "For the first three or four days,
the health of the Mother appeared excellent; denoting nothing but the
weakness inseparable from her situation. The weather was very warm.
Milk-fever came, which made the heat worse. In spite of remonstrances,
she would have some iced barley-water; drank a big glass of it;--and,
some instants after, had great pain in her head; followed by other bad
symptoms." Which brought the Doctor in again, several Doctors, hastily
summoned; who, after difficulties, thought again that all was coming
right. And so, on the sixth night, 10th September, inquiring friends had
left the sick-room hopefully, and gone down to supper, "the rather as
Madame seemed inclined to sleep. There remained none with her but M. de
St. Lambert, one of her maids and I. M. de St. Lambert, as soon as the
strangers were gone, went forward and spoke some moments to her; but
seeing her sleepy, drew back, and sat chatting with us two. Eight or ten
minutes after, we heard a kind of rattle in the throat, intermixed with
hiccoughs: we ran to the bed; found her, senseless; raised her to a
sitting posture, tried vinaigrettes, rubbed her feet, knocked into the
palms of her hands;--all in vain; she was dead!

"Of course the supper-party burst up into her room; M. le Marquis de
Chatelet, M. de Voltaire, and the others. Profound consternation: to
tears, to cries succeeded a mo