breath, and waiting for him to make a mistake, but I had my trouble for
nothing. I turned to the company crying that I was more than astonished,
and that all Italy should know what I had seen. "And I, sir," said the
great man, "will let all Europe know of the amends I owe to the greatest
genius our continent has produced."

Greedy of the praise which he deserved so well, Voltaire gave me the next
day his translation which Ariosto begins thus:

"Quindi avvien the tra principi a signori."

At the end of the recitation which gained the applause of all who heard
it, although not one of them knew Italian, Madame Denis, his niece, asked
me if I thought the passage her uncle had just recited one of the finest
the poet had written.

"Yes, but not the finest."

"It ought to be; for without it Signor Lodovico would not have gained his
apotheosis."

"He has been canonised, then? I was not aware of that."

At these words the laugh, headed by Voltaire, went for Madame Denis.
Everybody laughed except myself, and I continued to look perfectly
serious.

Voltaire was vexed at not seeing me laugh like the rest, and asked me the
reason.