"I arrived yesterday in good health, but have slept badly, because the house in which I lodge is situated over a torrent, which makes a frightful noise. This country I can only compare to an icy horror, like the tragedy of _Teree_." Twelve days afterwards, Voisenon writes to Madame Favart:-- "Madame de Choiseul's uncle, who paid you so many compliments in the green-room, arrived yesterday: he lodges in the same house with me.... I introduced him this morning into one of the best houses in Cauterets--indeed the very best house--where, I must confess, I myself spend three parts of the entire day; in a word, it is the pastry-cook's. This learned individual compounds admirable tartlets, as well as some little cakes of singular lightness; but above all, certain delicious little puffs composed of cream and millet-flour, which he calls _millassons_. I stuff them all day long. This makes the waters turn sour on my stomach, and myself turn very yellow; but I am tolerably well notwithstanding." This gormandizing Abbe de Voisenon, ever hanging, as it were, between _pates_ and his grave, becomes now a rather interesting subject of study. We begin to speculate upon what it is that will finally carry him off: his asthma, or the confectionary he daily swallows. He writes to Favart:-- "I bathe every morning, and during this operation I bear a striking resemblance to a match dipped in sulphur. I keep my health, however, tolerably well, though still suffering from my asthma, of which I fear I shall never be cured." It would be a wonder if he should be cured, with his unfortunate table excesses, which would have killed half-a-dozen healthy men. In vain do we seek in his correspondence with Favart and his wife, a single thought unconnected with the pleasures of the stomach. We have read with what delight he sings the praises of a pastry-cook established at Cauterets, famous for his millet-cakes and cream-puffs. His happiness did not stop here:-- "A second pastry-cook (he cries), upon my reputation, has set up here. There is a daily trial of skill between the two artists; I eat and judge, and it is my stomach that pays the cost. I go to the bath, and return to the oven. I shall come here again in the thrush season. We have red partridges, which are brought here from all parts; they are delicious." In short, he remained so long stuffing confectionary at Cauterets, where he had gone solely to take care of himself, and to live with the strictest regularity, that on the eve of his departure he wrote sadly to Madame Favart:--'I am just the same as when you saw me last: sometimes asthmatical, and always gormandizing.' The sufferings which he experienced during his sojourn at, Bareges, previous to his final return to Paris, are proofs of the deplorable effects of the mineral waters upon his health:--