We did not talk of myself only: Christian VII spoke of Paris with enthusiasm. “It is the capital of the world,” he remarked, “and our states are but the provinces.” He sought out our most celebrated _savants_ and _literati_, and was particularly delighted with d’Alembert, Diderot, la Harpe, and M. the comte de Buffon. He greatly regretted that Voltaire was not in Paris, and expressed his great desire to see at Ferney the great genius (as he termed him) who instructed and amused the world. He appeared weary of the fêtes which were given, and especially with the deadly-lively company of the two Duras. It was enough to kill you to have only one of them, and you may imagine the torture of being bored with both. The duke had promised Louis XV to be as amusing as possible too! After a conversation of three hours, which his majesty (of course) said had appeared but of a moment, he left me delighted with his person, wit, and manners. When Louis XV saw me, he inquired my opinion of his Danish majesty. “He is,” I replied, “a well-educated king, and that they say is a rarity.” “True,” said Louis XV, “there are so many persons who are interested in our ignorance, that it is a miracle if we escape out of their hands as reasonable beings.” I went on to tell the king our conversation. “Ah,” cried he, “here is one who will increase the vanity of the literary tribe: they want it, certainly. All these wits are our natural born enemies; and think themselves above us; and the more we honor them, the greater right do they assume to censure and despise us.” This was the usual burden of his song: he hated men of learning. Voltaire especially was his detestation, on account of the numerous epigrams which this great man had written against him; and Voltaire had just given fresh subject of offence by publishing “_La Cour du Roi Petaud_” (“The Court of the King Petaud,” ) a satire evidently directed as strongly against the king as your humble servant. M. de Voltaire had doubtless been encouraged to write this libel by the Choiseul party. He was at a distance, judged unfavorably of me, and thought he could scourge me without compromising himself. It was comte Jean who brought me these verses, in which there was less poetry than malevolence. I read them, was indignant, and wept. The duc d’Aiguillon came, and finding me in tears, inquired the cause. “Here,” said I, giving him the poem, “see if you can bear so gross an insult.” He took the paper, cast his eyes over it, and having folded it up, put it into his pocket. “It was ill done,” said he, “to show this to you. I knew of it yesterday, and came now to talk with you of it.” “I rely on you to do me justice.” “_Miséricorde!_” cried the duke, “would you lose yourself in the eyes of all France? You would place yourself in a fine situation by declaring yourself the persecutrix of Voltaire. Only an enemy could have thus advised you.” “That enemy was comte Jean.”