[Duvernet (T.J.D.V.), _Vie de Voltaire, _ p.

128; Voltaire himself, _OEuvres,_ ii.

142; Barbier, ii.

358.] Ah, and Madame la Marechale was herself an old love of Voltaire's; who had been entirely unkind to him! "Thus are you made immortal by a Kiss;--and have not your choice of the Kiss, Fate having chosen for you.

The younger Lady was a Daughter of Marechal de Noailles [our fine old Marechal, gone to the Wars against his Britannic Majesty in those very weeks]: infinitely clever (INFINIMENT D'ESPRIT); beautiful too, I understand, though towards forty;--hangs to the human memory, slightly but indissolubly, ever since that Wednesday Night of 1743." Old Marechal de Noailles is to the Wars, we said;--it is in a world all twinkling with watch-fires, and raked coals of War, that these fine Carnival things go on.