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nary a man. He had just then quitted
his garden, and was crossing the court
before his house. Seeing my chaise, and
me on the point of mounting it, he made
a sign to his servant, who had been my
Cicerone, to go to him, in order, I suppose,
to enquire who I was. After they had
exchanged a few words together, he ap-
proached the place where I stood, motion-
less, in order to contemplate his person
as much as I could when his eyes were
turned from me; but on seeing him
move towards me, I found myself drawn
by some irresistible power towards him;
and, without knowing what I did, I in-
sensibly met him half way.
It is not easy to conceive it possible for
for [sic] life to subsist in a form so nearly
composed of mere skin and bone, as that
of M. de Voltaire. He complained of
decrepitude, and said, he supposed I
was curious to form an idea of the fi-
gure of one walking after death. How-
ever his eyes and whole countenance are
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