At length, my dear Aza, I am arrived at a city called Paris: Our journey is at an end, but I fear my troubles are not so.

More attentive than ever, since my arrival, to all that passes, my discoveries produce only uneasiness, and presage nothing but misfortunes. I find your idea the least of my curious desires, but cannot meet with it in any of the objects I see.

As well as I can judge by the time we spent in passing through this city, and the great number of inhabitants which fill the streets, it contains more people than could be got together in two or three of our countries.

I reflect on the wonders that have been told me of Quito, and endeavour to find here some resemblance of the picture which I drew to myself of that great city; but, alas! how different? This place is composed of bridges, rivers, trees, fields; it seems to be a world, rather than a particular seat of habitation. It would be in vain to attempt to give you any just notion of the height of the houses. They are so prodigiously elevated, that it is easier to believe Nature produced them as they are, than to imagine men could ever build them.

In this place the family of the Cacique resides. Their house is almost as magnificent as that of the Sun: The furniture, and some parts of the walls, are of gold, and the rest is adorned with a various mixture of the finest colours, which prettily enough represent the beauties of Nature.

At my arrival, Deterville gave me to understand that he was conducting me to his mother's apartment. We found her reclined upon a bed of almost the same form as that of the Incas, and of the same metal: After having held out her hand to the Cacique, who kissed it, bowing almost to the ground, she embraced him, but in so cold and constrained a manner, that, if I had not been previously informed, I should never have seen the mother in her caresses.