The Madame called on him to express her sympathy--and congratulations. She had written a book, but it had not been burned--not even read! She was tall, thin, angular, far from handsome, but had beaming eyes and a face that tokened intellect. And best of all, her voice was low, finely modulated, and was not exercised more than was meet. She leaned her chin upon her hand and looked at him. She had met Voltaire when she was a child--at least she said so, and he, being a gentleman, remembered perfectly. She read to him a little manuscript she had just dashed off. It was deep, profound and full of reasons--that is the way learned women write--they write like professors of rhetoric. Really great men write lightly, suggestively, and with a certain amount of indifference, dash, froth and foam. When women evolve literary foam, it is the sweet, cloying, fixed foam of the charlotte russe--not the bubbling, effervescent Voltaire article. Could M. de Voltaire suggest a way in which her manuscript might be lightened up so the public executioner would deign to notice it? M. de Voltaire responded by reading to her a little thing of his own. The next day she called again. Some say that Madame called on Voltaire to secure a loan on her husband's estate at Civey. No matter--she got the loan. Doubtless she did not know where she was going--none of us do. We are all sailing under sealed orders. The Madame had been married eight years. She was versed in Latin and knew Italian literature. She was educated; Voltaire was not. She offered to teach him Italian if he would give her lessons in English. They read to each other things they had recently written. When men and women read to each other and mingle their emotions, the danger-line is being reached. Literary people of the opposite sex do not really love each other. All they desire is to read their manuscript aloud to a receptive listener. Thus are the literary germs vitalized--by giving our thoughts to another we really make them our own. Only well-sexed people produce literature--poetry is the pollen of the mind. Meter, rhythm, lilt and style are stamen, pistil and stalk swaying in the warm breeze of springtime. An order for arrest was out for Voltaire. Pamphlets which he had been refused permission to publish in Paris were printed at Rouen and were setting all Paris by the ears. With Madame du Chatelet he fled to Civey, where was the tumbledown chateau of the Marquis--the Madame's complaisant husband. Voltaire advanced the Marquis sixteen hundred pounds to put the place in order, and then on his own account fitted up two sumptuous apartments, one for himself and one for Madame. The Marquis went away with his regiment, and occasionally came back and lounged about the chateau. But Voltaire was the real master of the place.