him to die of hunger. I can never, without the greatest affliction of
mind, call to my recollection the last moments of this worthy man, who
still received with so much pleasure, Leneips and myself, the only
friends whom the sight of his sufferings did not separate from him until
his last hour, when he was reduced to devouring with his eyes the repasts
he had placed before us, scarcely having the power of swallowing a few
drops of weak tea, which came up again a moment afterwards. But before
these days of sorrow, how many have I passed at his house, with the
chosen friends he had made himself! At the head of the list I place the
Abbe Prevot, a very amiable man, and very sincere, whose heart vivified
his writings, worthy of immortality, and who, neither in his disposition
nor in society, had the least of the melancholy coloring he gave to his
works. Procope, the physician, a little Esop, a favorite with the
ladies; Boulanger, the celebrated posthumous author of 'Despotisme
Oriental', and who, I am of opinion extended the systems of Mussard on
the duration of the world. The female part of his friends consisted of
Madam Denis, niece to Voltaire, who, at that time, was nothing more than
a good kind of woman, and pretended not to wit: Madam Vanloo, certainly
not handsome, but charming, and who sang like an angel: Madam de
Valmalette, herself, who sang also, and who, although very thin, would
have been very amiable had she had fewer pretensions. Such, or very
nearly such, was the society of M. Mussard, with which I should had been
much pleased, had not his conchyliomania more engaged my attention; and I
can say, with great truth, that, for upwards of six months, I worked with
him in his cabinet with as much pleasure as he felt himself.

He had long insisted upon the virtue of the waters of Passy, that they
were proper in my case, and recommended me to come to his house to drink
them. To withdraw myself from the tumult of the city, I at length
consented, and went to pass eight or ten days at Passy, which, on account