But I am wrong in saying Madam Houdetot did not partake of the passion

of love; that which I felt was in some measure confined to myself;

yet love was equal on both sides, but not reciprocal. We were both

intoxicated with the passion, she for her lover, and I for herself; our

sighs and delicious tears were mingled together. Tender confidants

of the secrets of each other, there was so great a similarity in our

sentiments that it was impossible they should not find some common point

of union. In the midst of this delicious intoxication, she never forgot

herself for a moment, and I solemnly protest that, if ever, led away by

my senses, I have attempted to render her unfaithful, I was never really

desirous of succeeding. The vehemence itself of my passion restrained it

within bounds. The duty of self-denial had elevated my mind. The lustre

of every virture adorned in my eyes the idol of my heart; to have soiled

their divine image would have been to destroy it. I might have committed

the crime; it has been a hundred times committed in my heart; but to

dishonor my Sophia! Ah! was this ever possible? No! I have told her

a hundred times it was not. Had I had it in my power to satisfy my

desires, had she consented to commit herself to my discretion, I should,

except in a few moments of delirium, have refused to be happy at the

price of her honor. I loved her too well to wish to possess her.

The distance from the Hermitage to Raubonne is almost a league; in my

frequent excursions to it I have sometimes slept there. One evening

after having supped tete-a-tete we went to walk in the garden by a fine

moonlight. At the bottom of the garden a considerable copse, through

which we passed on our way to a pretty grove ornamented with a cascade,

of which I had given her the idea, and she had procured it to be

executed accordingly.

Eternal remembrance of innocence and enjoyment! It was in this grove

that, seated by her side upon a seat of turf under an acacia in full

bloom, I found for the emotions of my heart a language worthy of

them. It was the first and only time of my life; but I was sublime: if

everything amiable and seducing with which the most tender and ardent

love can inspire the heart of man can be so called. What intoxicating

tears did I shed upon her knees! how many did I make her to shed

involuntarily! At length in an involuntary transport she exclaimed: "No,

never was a man so amiable, nor ever was there one who loved like you!

But your friend Saint Lambert hears us, and my heart is incapable of

loving twice." I exhausted myself with sighs; I embraced her--what an

embrace! But this was all. She had lived alone for the last six months,

that is absent from her husband and lover; I had seen her almost every

day during three months, and love seldom failed to make a third. We had

supped tete-a-tete, we were alone, in the grove by moonlight, and after

two hours of the most lively and tender conversation, she left this

grove at midnight, and the arms of her lover, as morally and physically

pure as she had entered it. Reader, weigh all these circumstances; I

will add nothing more.

Do not, however, imagine that in this situation my passions left me as

undisturbed as I was with Theresa and mamma. I have already observed

I was this time inspired not only with love, but with love and all its

energy and fury. I will not describe either the agitations, tremblings,

palpitations, convulsionary emotions, nor faintings of the heart, I

continually experienced; these may be judged of by the effect her image

alone made upon me. I have observed the distance from the Hermitage to

Eaubonne was considerable; I went by the hills of Andilly, which are

delightful; I mused, as I walked, on her whom I was going to see, the

charming reception she would give me, and upon the kiss which awaited me

at my arrival. This single kiss, this pernicious embrace, even before I

received it, inflamed my blood to such a degree as to affect my head, my

eyes were dazzled, my knees trembled, and were unable to support me; I

was obliged to stop and sit down; my whole frame was in inconceivable

disorder, and I was upon the point of fainting. Knowing the danger, I

endeavored at setting out to divert my attention from the object, and

think of something else. I had not proceeded twenty steps before the

same recollection, and all that was the consequence of it, assailed me

in such a manner that it was impossible to avoid them, and in spite of

all my efforts I do not believe I ever made this little excursion alone

with impunity. I arrived at Eaubonne, weak, exhausted, and scarcely able

to support myself. The moment I saw her everything was repaired; all I

felt in her presence was the importunity of an inexhaustible and useless

ardor. Upon the road to Raubonne there was a pleasant terrace called

Mont Olympe, at which we sometimes met. I arrived first, it was proper

I should wait for her; but how dear this waiting cost me! To divert my

attention, I endeavored to write with my pencil billets, which I could

have written with the purest drops of my blood; I never could finish one

which was eligible. When she found a note in the niche upon which we had

agreed, all she learned from the contents was the deplorable state in

which I was when I wrote it. This state and its continuation, during

three months of irritation and self-denial, so exhausted me, that I was

several years before I recovered from it, and at the end of these it

left me an ailment which I shall carry with me, or which will carry

me to the grave. Such was the sole enjoyment of a man of the most

combustible constitution, but who was, at the same time, perhaps, one

of the most timid mortals nature ever produced. Such were the last happy

days I can reckon upon earth; at the end of these began the long train

of evils, in which there will be found but little interruption.

It has been seen that, during the whole course of my life, my heart,

as transparent as crystal, has never been capable of concealing for

the space of a moment any sentiment in the least lively which had taken

refuge in it. It will therefore be judged whether or not it was possible

for me long to conceal my affection for Madam d'Houdetot. Our intimacy

struck the eyes of everybody, we did not make of it either a secret or

a mystery. It was not of a nature to require any such precaution, and

as Madam d'Houdetot had for me the most tender friendship with which she

did not reproach herself, and I for her an esteem with the justice

of which nobody was better acquainted than myself; she frank, absent,

heedless; I true, awkward, haughty, impatient and choleric; We exposed

ourselves more in deceitful security than we should have done had we

been culpable. We both went to the Chevrette; we sometimes met there by

appointment. We lived there according to our accustomed manner; walking

together every day talking of our amours, our duties, our friend, and

our innocent projects; all this in the park opposite the apartment of

Madam d'Epinay, under her windows, whence incessantly examining us, and

thinking herself braved, she by her eyes filled her heart with rage and

indignation.

Women have the art of concealing their anger, especially when it is

great. Madam d'Epinay, violent but deliberate, possessed this art to an

eminent degree. She feigned not to see or suspect anything, and at

the same time that she doubled towards me her cares, attention, and

allurements, she affected to load her sister-in-law with incivilities

and marks of disdain, which she seemingly wished to communicate to me.

It will easily be imagined she did not succeed; but I was on the rack.

Torn by opposite passions, at the same time that I was sensible of her

caresses, I could scarcely contain my anger when I saw her wanting in

good manners to Madam d'Houdetot. The angelic sweetness of this lady

made her endure everything without complaint, or even without being

offended.

She was, in fact, so absent, and always so little attentive to these

things, that half the time she did not perceive them.

I was so taken up with my passion, that, seeing nothing but Sophia (one

of the names of Madam d'Houdetot), I did not perceive that I was become

the laughing-stock of the whole house, and all those who came to it. The

Baron d'Holbach, who never, as I heard of, had been at the Chevrette,

was one of the latter. Had I at that time been as mistrustful as I am

since become, I should strongly have suspected Madam d'Epinay to have

contrived this journey to give the baron the amusing spectacle of an

amorous citizen. But I was then so stupid that I saw not that even which

was glaring to everybody. My stupidity did not, however, prevent me

from finding in the baron a more jovial and satisfied appearance than

ordinary. Instead of looking upon me with his usual moroseness, he said

to me a hundred jocose things without my knowing what he meant. Surprise

was painted in my countenance, but I answered not a word: Madam d'Epinay

shook her sides with laughing; I knew not what possessed them. As

nothing yet passed the bounds of pleasantry, the best thing I could

have done, had I been in the secret, would have been to have humored the

joke. It is true I perceived amid the rallying gayety of the baron, that

his eyes sparkled with a malicious joy, which could have given me

pain had I then remarked it to the degree it has since occurred to my

recollection.

One day when I went to see Madam d'Houdetot, at Eaubonne, after her

return from one of her journeys to Paris, I found her melancholy, and

observed that she had been weeping. I was obliged to put a restraint on

myself, because Madam de Blainville, sister to her husband, was present;

but the moment I found an opportunity, I expressed to her my uneasiness.

"Ah," said she, with a sigh, "I am much afraid your follies will cost me

the repose of the rest of my days. St. Lambert has been informed of what

has passed, and ill informed of it. He does me justice, but he is vexed;

and what is still worse, he conceals from me a part of his vexation.

Fortunately I have not concealed from him anything relative to our

connection which was formed under his auspices. My letters, like my

heart, were full of yourself; I made him acquainted with everything,

except your extravagant passion, of which I hoped to cure you; and which

he imputes to me as a crime. Somebody has done us ill offices. I have

been injured, but what does this signify? Either let us entirely break

with each other, or do you be what you ought to be. I will not in future

have anything to conceal from my lover."

This was the first moment in which I was sensible of the shame of

feeling myself humbled by the sentiment of my fault, in presence of a

young woman of whose just reproaches I approved, and to whom I ought

to have been a mentor. The indignation I felt against myself would,

perhaps, have been sufficient to overcome my weakness, had not the

tender passion inspired me by the victim of it, again softened my heart.

Alas! was this a moment to harden it when it was overflowed by the tears

which penetrated it in every part? This tenderness was soon changed into

rage against the vile informers, who had seen nothing but the evil of a

criminal but involuntary sentiment, without believing or even imagining

the sincere uprightness of heart by which it was counteracted. We did

not remain long in doubt about the hand by which the blow was directed.

We both knew that Madam d'Epinay corresponded with St. Lambert. This

was not the first storm she had raised up against Madam d'Houdetot, from

whom she had made a thousand efforts to detach her lover, the success of

some of which made the consequences to be dreaded. Besides, Grimm, who,

I think, had accompanied M. de Castries to the army, was in Westphalia,

as well as Saint Lambert; they sometimes visited. Grimm had made

some attempts on Madam d'Houdetot, which had not succeeded, and being

extremely piqued, suddenly discontinued his visits to her. Let it be

judged with what calmness, modest as he is known to be, he supposed she

preferred to him a man older than himself, and of whom, since he had

frequented the great, he had never spoken but as a person whom he

patronized.

My suspicions of Madam d'Epinay were changed into a certainty the moment

I heard what had passed in my own house. When I was at the Chevrette,

Theresa frequently came there, either to bring me letters or to pay me

that attention which my ill state of health rendered necessary. Madam

d'Epinay had asked her if Madam d'Houdetot and I did not write to each

other. Upon her answering in the affirmative, Madam d'Epinay pressed her

to give her the letters of Madam d'Houdetot, assuring her that she

would reseal them in such a manner as it should never be known. Theresa,

without showing how much she was shocked at the proposition, and without

even putting me upon my guard, did nothing more than seal the letters

she brought me more carefully; a lucky precaution, for Madam d'Epinay

had her watched when she arrived, and, waiting for her in the passage,

several times carried her audaciousness as far as to examine her tucker.

She did more even than this: having one day invited herself with M. de

Margency to dinner at the Hermitage, for the first time since I resided

there, she seized the moment I was walking with Margency to go into my

closet with the mother and daughter, and to press them to show her the

letters of Madam d'Houdetot. Had the mother known where the letters

were, they would have been given to her; fortunately, the daughter was

the only person who was in the secret, and denied my having preserved

any one of them. A virtuous, faithful and generous falsehood; whilst

truth would have been a perfidy. Madam d' Epinay, perceiving Theresa was

not to be seduced, endeavored to irritate her by jealousy, reproaching

her with her easy temper and blindness. "How is it possible," said she

to her, "you cannot perceive there is a criminal intercourse between

them? If besides what strikes your eyes you stand in need of other

proofs, lend your assistance to obtain that which may furnish them; you

say he tears the letters from Madam d'Houdetot as soon as he has read

them. Well, carefully gather up the pieces and give them to me; I will

take upon myself to put them together."

Such were the lessons my friend gave to the partner of my bed.

Theresa had the discretion to conceal from me, for a considerable time,

all these attempts; but perceiving how much I was perplexed, she thought

herself obliged to inform me of everything, to the end that knowing

with whom I had to do, I might take my measures accordingly. My rage and

indignation are not to be described. Instead of dissembling with Madam

d'Epinay, according to her own example, and making use of counterplots,

I abandoned myself without reserve to the natural impetuosity of

my temper; and with my accustomed inconsiderateness came to an open

rupture. My imprudence will be judged of by the following letters,

which sufficiently show the manner of proceeding of both parties on this

occasion:

NOTE FROM MADAM D'EPINAY. "Why, my dear friend, do I not see you? You

make me uneasy. You have so often promised me to do nothing but go and

come between this place and the Hermitage! In this I have left you at

liberty; and you have suffered a week to pass without coming. Had not I

been told you were well I should have imagined the contrary. I expected

you either the day before yesterday, or yesterday, but found myself

disappointed. My God, what is the matter with you? You have no business,

nor can you have any uneasiness; for had this been the case, I

flatter myself you would have come and communicated it to me. You are,

therefore, ill! Relieve me, I beseech you, speedily from my fears.

Adieu, my dear friend: let this adieu produce me a good-morning from

you."

ANSWER. "I cannot yet say anything to you. I wait to be better informed,

and this I shall be sooner or later. In the meantime be persuaded that

innocence will find a defender sufficiently powerful to cause some

repentance in the slanderers, be they who they may."

SECOND NOTE FROM THE SAME. "Do you know that your letter frightens

me? What does it mean? I have read it twenty times. In truth I do not

understand what it means. All I can perceive is, that you are uneasy and

tormented, and that you wait until you are no longer so before you speak

to me upon the subject. Is this, my dear friend, what we agreed upon?

What then is become of that friendship and confidence, and by what means

have I lost them? Is it with me or for me that you are angry? However

this may be, come to me this evening I conjure you; remember you

promised me no longer than a week ago to let nothing remain upon your

mind, but immediately to communicate to me whatever might make it

uneasy. My dear friend, I live in that confidence--There--I have just

read your letter again; I do not understand the contents better, but

they make me tremble. You seem to be cruelly agitated. I could wish to

calm your mind, but as I am ignorant of the cause whence your uneasiness

arises, I know not what to say, except that I am as wretched as

yourself, and shall remain so until we meet. If you are not here this

evening at six o'clock, I set off to morrow for the Hermitage, let the

weather be how it will, and in whatever state of health I may be; for

I can no longer support the inquietude I now feel. Good day, my dear

friend, at all risks I take the liberty to tell you, without knowing

whether or not you are in need of such advice, to endeavor to stop the

progress uneasiness makes in solitude. A fly becomes a monster. I have

frequently experienced it."

ANSWER. "I can neither come to see you nor receive your visit so long

as my present inquietude continues. The confidence of which you speak no

longer exists, and it will be easy for you to recover it. I see nothing

more in your present anxiety than the desire of drawing from the

confessions of others some advantage agreeable to your views; and my

heart, so ready to pour its overflowings into another which opens itself

to receive them, is shut against trick and cunning. I distinguish your

ordinary address in the difficulty you find in understanding my note.

Do you think me dupe enough to believe you have not comprehended what

it meant? No: but I shall know how to overcome your subtleties by my

frankness. I will explain myself more clearly, that you may understand

me still less.

"Two lovers closely united and worthy of each other's love are dear to

me; I expect you will not know who I mean unless I name them. I presume

attempts have been made to disunite them, and that I have been made

use of to inspire one of the two with jealousy. The choice was not

judicious, but it appeared convenient to the purposes of malice, and of

this malice it is you whom I suspect to be guilty. I hope this becomes

more clear.

"Thus the woman whom I most esteem would, with my knowledge, have been

loaded with the infamy of dividing her heart and person between two

lovers, and I with that of being one of these wretches. If I knew that,

for a single moment in your life, you ever had thought this, either

of her or myself, I should hate you until my last hour. But it is with

having said, and not with having thought it, that I charge you. In this

case, I cannot comprehend which of the three you wished to injure; but,

if you love peace of mind, tremble lest you should have succeeded. I

have not concealed either from you or her all the ill I think of certain

connections, but I wish these to end by a means as virtuous as their

cause, and that an illegitimate love may be changed into an eternal

friendship. Should I, who never do ill to any person, be the innocent

means of doing it to my friends? No, I should never forgive you; I

should become your irreconcilable enemy. Your secrets are all I should

respect; for I will never be a man without honor.

"I do not apprehend my present perplexity will continue a long time. I

shall soon know whether or not I am deceived; I shall then perhaps have

great injuries to repair, which I will do with as much cheerfulness as

that with which the most agreeable act of my life has been accompanied.

But do you know in what manner I will make amends for my faults during

the short space of time I have to remain near to you? By doing what

nobody but myself would do; by telling you freely what the world

thinks of you, and the breaches you have to repair in your reputation.

Notwithstanding all the pretended friends by whom you are surrounded,

the moment you see me depart you may bid adieu to truth, you will no

longer find any person who will tell it to you."

THIRD LETTER FROM THE SAME.

"I did not understand your letter of this morning; this I told you

because it was the case. I understand that of this evening; do not

imagine I shall ever return an answer to it; I am too anxious to forget

what it contains; and although you excite my pity, I am not proof

against the bitterness with which it has filled my mind. I! descend to

trick and cunning with you! I! accused of the blackest of all infamies!

Adieu, I regret your having the adieu. I know not what I say adieu: I

shall be very anxious to forgive you. You will come when you please;

you will be better received than your suspicions deserve. All I have

to desire of you is not to trouble yourself about my reputation. The

opinion of the world concerning me is of but little importance in my

esteem. My conduct is good, and this is sufficient for me. Besides, I am

ignorant of what has happened to the two persons who are dear to me as

they are to you."

This last letter extricated me from a terrible embarrassment, and threw

me into another of almost the same magnitude. Although these letters and

answers were sent and returned the same day with an extreme rapidity,

the interval had been sufficient to place another between my rage

and transport, and to give me time to reflect on the enormity of my

imprudence. Madam d'Houdetot had not recommended to me anything so much

as to remain quiet, to leave her the care of extricating herself, and to

avoid, especially at that moment, all noise and rupture; and I, by the

most open and atrocious insults, took the properest means of carrying

rage to its greatest height in the heart of a woman who was already but

too well disposed to it. I now could naturally expect nothing from her

but an answer so haughty, disdainful, and expressive of contempt, that

I could not, without the utmost meanness, do otherwise than immediately

quit her house. Happily she, more adroit than I was furious, avoided,

by the manner of her answer, reducing me to that extremity. But it was

necessary either to quit or immediately go and see her; the alternative

was inevitable; I resolved on the latter, though I foresaw how much I

must be embarrassed in the explanation. For how was I to get through it

without exposing either Madam d'Houdetot or Theresa? and woe to her

whom I should have named! There was nothing that the vengeance of an

implacable and an intriguing woman did not make me fear for the person

who should be the object of it. It was to prevent this misfortune that

in my letter I had spoken of nothing but suspicions, that I might not be

under the necessity of producing my proofs. This, it is true, rendered

my transports less excusable; no simple suspicions being sufficient to

authorize me to treat a woman, and especially a friend, in the manner

I had treated Madam d'Epinay. But here begins the noble task I worthily

fulfilled of expiating my faults and secret weaknesses by charging

myself with such of the former as I was incapable of committing, and

which I never did commit.

I had not to bear the attack I had expected, and fear was the greatest

evil I received from it. At my approach, Madam d' Epinay threw her arms

about my neck, bursting into tears. This unexpected reception, and by an

old friend, extremely affected me; I also shed many tears. I said to her

a few words which had not much meaning; she uttered others with still

less, and everything ended here. Supper was served; we sat down to

table, where, in expectation of the explanation I imagined to be

deferred until supper was over, I made a very poor figure; for I am

so overpowered by the most trifling inquietude of mind that I cannot

conceal it from persons the least clear-sighted. My embarrassed

appearance must have given her courage, yet she did not risk anything

upon that foundation. There was no more explanation after than before

supper: none took place on the next day, and our little tete-a-tete

conversations consisted of indifferent things, or some complimentary

words on my part, by which, while I informed her I could not say more

relative to my suspicions, I asserted, with the greatest truth, that, if

they were ill-founded, my whole life should be employed in repairing the

injustice. She did not show the least curiosity to know precisely

what they were, nor for what reason I had formed them, and all our

peacemaking consisted, on her part as well as on mine, in the embrace at

our first meeting. Since Madam d'Epinay was the only person offended, at

least in form, I thought it was not for me to strive to bring about

an eclaircissement for which she herself did not seem anxious, and I

returned as I had come; continuing, besides, to live with her upon the

same footing as before, I soon almost entirely forgot the quarrel, and

foolishly believed she had done the same, because she seemed not to

remember what had passed.

This, it will soon appear, was not the only vexation caused me by

weakness; but I had others not less disagreeable which I had not brought

upon myself. The only cause of these was a desire of forcing me from my

solitude, by means of tormenting me. These originated from Diderot and

the d'Holbachiens.

[That is to take from it the old woman who was wanted in the

conspiracy. It is astonishing that, during this long quarrel,

my stupid confidence presented me from comprehending that it was

not me but her whom they wanted in Paris.]

Since I had resided at the Hermitage, Diderot incessantly harrassed me,

either himself or by means of De Leyre, and I soon perceived from the

pleasantries of the latter upon my ramblings in the groves, with what

pleasure he had travestied the hermit into the gallant shepherd. But

this was not the question in my quarrels with Diderot; the cause of

these were more serious. After the publication of Fils Naturel he had

sent me a copy of it, which I had read with the interest and attention

I ever bestowed on the works of a friend. In reading the kind of poem

annexed to it, I was surprised and rather grieved to find in it, amongst

several things, disobliging but supportable against men in solitude,

this bitter and severe sentence without the least softening: 'Il n'y a

que le méchant qui soit seul.' --This sentence is equivocal, and seems

to present a double meaning; the one true, the other false, since it is

impossible that a man who is determined to remain alone can do the least

harm to anybody, and consequently he cannot be wicked. The sentence in

itself therefore required an interpretation; the more so from an author

who, when he sent it to the press, had a friend retired from the world.

It appeared to me shocking and uncivil, either to have forgotten that

solitary friend, or, in remembering him, not to have made from the

general maxim the honorable and just exception which he owed, not only

to his friend, but to so many respectable sages, who, in all ages, have

sought for peace and tranquillity in retirement, and of whom, for the

first time since the creation of the world, a writer took it into his

head indiscriminately to make so many villains.

I had a great affection and the most sincere esteem for Diderot, and

fully depended upon his having the same sentiments for me. But

tired with his indefatigable obstinacy in continually opposing my

inclinations, taste, and manner of living, and everything which related

to no person but myself; shocked at seeing a man younger than I was

wish, at all events, to govern me like a child; disgusted with his

facility in promising, and his negligence in performing; weary of so

many appointments given by himself, and capriciously broken, while new

ones were again given only to be again broken; displeased at uselessly

waiting for him three or four times a month on the days he had assigned,

and in dining alone at night after having gone to Saint Denis to meet

him, and waited the whole day for his coming; my heart was already

full of these multiplied injuries. This last appeared to me still more

serious, and gave me infinite pain. I wrote to complain of it, but in so

mild and tender a manner that I moistened my paper with my tears, and my

letter was sufficiently affecting to have drawn others from himself.

It would be impossible to guess his answer on this subject: it was

literally as follows: "I am glad my work has pleased and affected you.

You are not of my opinion relative to hermits. Say as much good of them

as you please, you will be the only one in the world of whom I shall

think well: even on this there would be much to say were it possible to

speak to you without giving you offence. A woman eighty years of age!

etc. A phrase of a letter from the son of Madam d'Epinay which, if I

know you well, must have given you much pain, has been mentioned to me."

The last two expressions of this letter want explanation.

Soon after I went to reside at the Hermitage, Madam le Vasseur seemed

dissatisfied with her situation, and to think the habitation too

retired. Having heard she had expressed her dislike to the place, I

offered to send her back to Paris, if that were more agreeable to her;

to pay her lodging, and to have the same care taken of her as if she

remained with me. She rejected my offer, assured me she was very well

satisfied with the Hermitage, and that the country air was of service

to her. This was evident, for, if I may so speak, she seemed to become

young again, and enjoyed better health than at Paris. Her daughter told

me her mother would, on the whole, have been very sorry to quit the

Hermitage, which was really a very delightful abode, being fond of the

little amusements of the garden and the care of the fruit of which she

had the handling, but that she had said, what she had been desired to

say, to induce me to return to Paris.

Failing in this attempt they endeavored to obtain by a scruple the

effect which complaisance had not produced, and construed into a crime

my keeping the old woman at a distance from the succors of which, at

her age, she might be in need. They did not recollect that she, and many

other old people, whose lives were prolonged by the air of the country,

might obtain these succors at Montmorency, near to which I lived; as if

there were no old people, except in Paris, and that it was impossible

for them to live in any other place. Madam le Vasseur who ate a great

deal, and with extreme voracity, was subject to overflowings of bile and

to strong diarrhoeas, which lasted several days, and served her instead

of clysters. At Paris she neither did nor took anything for them, but

left nature to itself. She observed the same rule at the Hermitage,

knowing it was the best thing she could do. No matter, since there were

not in the country either physicians or apothecaries, keeping her there

must, no doubt, be with the desire of putting an end to her existence,

although she was in perfect health. Diderot should have determined at

what age, under pain of being punished for homicide, it is no longer

permitted to let old people remain out of Paris.

This was one of the atrocious accusations from which he did not except

me in his remark; that none but the wicked were alone: and the meaning

of his pathetic exclamation with the et cetera, which he had benignantly

added: A woman of eighty years of age, etc.

I thought the best answer that could be given to this reproach would

be from Madam le Vasseur herself. I desired her to write freely and

naturally her sentiments to Madam d'Epinay. To relieve her from all

constraint I would not see her letter. I showed her that which I am

going to transcribe. I wrote it to Madam d'Epinay upon the subject of

an answer I wished to return to a letter still more severe from Diderot,

and which she had prevented me from sending.

Thursday.

"My good friend. Madam le Vasseur is to write to you: I have desired

her to tell you sincerely what she thinks. To remove from her all

constraint, I have intimated to her that I will not see what she writes,

and I beg of you not to communicate to me any part of the contents of

her letter.

"I will not send my letter because you do not choose I should; but,

feeling myself grievously offended, it would be baseness and falsehood,

of either of which it is impossible for me to be guilty, to acknowledge

myself in the wrong. Holy writ commands him to whom a blow is given, to

turn the other cheek, but not to ask pardon. Do you remember the man in

comedy who exclaims, while he is giving another blows with his staff,

'This is the part of a philosopher!'

"Do not flatter yourself that he will be prevented from coming by the

bad weather we now have. His rage will give him the time and strength

which friendship refuses him, and it will be the first time in his life

he ever came upon the day he had appointed.

"He will neglect nothing to come and repeat to me verbally the injuries

with which he loads me in his letters; I will endure them all with

patience--he will return to Paris to be ill again; and, according to

custom, I shall be a very hateful man. What is to be done? Endure it

all.

"But do not you admire the wisdom of the man who would absolutely come

to Saint Denis in a hackney-coach to dine there, bring me home in a

hackney-coach, and whose finances, eight days afterwards, obliges him

to come to the Hermitage on foot? It is not possible, to speak his own

language, that this should be the style of sincerity. But were this the

case, strange changes of fortune must have happened in the course of a

week.

"I join in your affliction for the illness of madam, your mother, but

you will perceive your grief is not equal to mine. We suffer less by

seeing the persons we love ill than when they are unjust and cruel.

"Adieu, my good friend, I shall never again mention to you this unhappy

affair. You speak of going to Paris with an unconcern, which, at any

other time, would give me pleasure."

I wrote to Diderot, telling him what I had done, relative to Madam

le Vasseur, upon the proposal of Madam d'Epinay herself; and Madam

le Vasseur having, as it may be imagined, chosen to remain at the

Hermitage, where she enjoyed a good state of health, always had company,

and lived very agreeably, Diderot, not knowing what else to attribute to

me as a crime, construed my precaution into one, and discovered another

in Madam le Vasseur continuing to reside at the Hermitage, although this

was by her own choice; and though her going to Paris had depended, and

still depended upon herself, where she would continue to receive the

same succors from me as I gave her in my house.

This is the explanation of the first reproach in the letter of Diderot.

That of the second is in the letter which follows: "The learned man (a

name given in a joke by Grimm to the son of Madam d'Epinay) must have

informed you there were upon the rampart twenty poor persons who were

dying with cold and hunger, and waiting for the farthing you customarily

gave them. This is a specimen of our little babbling.....And if you

understand the rest it will amuse you perhap."

My answer to this terrible argument, of which Diderot seemed so proud,

was in the following words:

"I think I answered the learned man; that is, the farmer-general, that I

did not pity the poor whom he had seen upon the rampart, waiting for

my farthing; that he had probably amply made it up to them; that I

appointed him my substitute, that the poor of Paris would have no reason

to complain of the change; and that I should not easily find so good

a one for the poor of Montmorency, who were in much greater need of

assistance. Here is a good and respectable old man, who, after having

worked hard all his lifetime, no longer being able to continue his

labors, is in his old days dying with hunger. My conscience is more

satisfied with the two sous I give him every Monday, than with the

hundred farthings I should have distributed amongst all the beggars on

the rampart. You are pleasant men, you philosophers, while you consider

the inhabitants of the cities as the only persons whom you ought to

befriend. It is in the country men learn how to love and serve humanity;

all they learn in cities is to despise it."

Such were the singular scruples on which a man of sense had the folly

to attribute to me as a crime my retiring from Paris, and pretended to

prove to me by my own example, that it was not possible to live out of

the capital without becoming a bad man. I cannot at present conceive how

I could be guilty of the folly of answering him, and of suffering myself

to be angry instead of laughing in his fare. However, the decisions of

Madam d'Epinay and the clamors of the 'Coterie Holbachique' had so far

operated in her favor, that I was generally thought to be in the wrong;

and the D'Houdetot herself, very partial to Diderot, insisted upon

my going to see him at Paris, and making all the advances towards an

accommodation which, full and sincere as it was on my part, was not of

long duration. The victorious argument by which she subdued my heart

was, that at that moment Diderot was in distress. Besides the storm

excited against the 'Encyclopedie', he had then another violent one to

make head against, relative to his piece, which, notwithstanding the

short history he had printed at the head of it, he was accused of having

entirely taken from Goldoni. Diderot, more wounded by criticisms than

Voltaire, was overwhelmed by them. Madam de Grasigny had been malicious

enough to spread a report that I had broken with him on this account.

I thought it would be just and generous publicly to prove the contrary,

and I went to pass two days, not only with him, but at his lodgings.

This, since I had taken up my abode at the Hermitage, was my second

journey to Paris. I had made the first to run to poor Gauffecourt,

who had had a stroke of apoplexy, from which he has never perfectly

recovered: I did not quit the side of his pillow until he was so far

restored as to have no further need of my assistance.

Diderot received me well. How many wrongs are effaced by the embraces of

a friend! after these, what resentment can remain in the heart? We came

to but little explanation. This is needless for reciprocal invectives.

The only thing necessary is to know how to forget them. There had been

no underhand proceedings, none at least that had come to my knowledge:

the case was not the same with Madam d' Epinay. He showed me the plan

of the 'Pere de Famille'. "This," said I to him, "is the best defence

to the 'Fils Naturel'. Be silent, give your attention to this piece, and

then throw it at the head of your enemies as the only answer you think

proper to make them." He did so, and was satisfied with what he had

done.

I had six months before sent him the first two parts of my 'Eloisa' to

have his opinion upon them. He had not yet read the work over. We read

a part of it together. He found this 'feuillet', that was his term, by

which he meant loaded with words and redundancies. I myself had already

perceived it; but it was the babbling of the fever: I have never

been able to correct it. The last parts are not the same. The fourth

especially, and the sixth, are master-pieces of diction.

The day after my arrival, he would absolutely take me to sup with M.

d'Holbach. We were far from agreeing on this point; for I wished even to

get rid of the bargain for the manuscript on chemistry, for which I was

enraged to be obliged to that man. Diderot carried all before him. He

swore D'Holbach loved me with all his heart, said I must forgive him his

manner, which was the same to everybody, and more disagreeable to his

friends than to others. He observed to me that, refusing the produce

of this manuscript, after having accepted it two years before, was an

affront to the donor which he had not deserved, and that my refusal

might be interpreted into a secret reproach, for having waited so long

to conclude the bargain. "I see," added he, "D'Holbach every day, and

know better than you do the nature of his disposition. Had you reason to

be dissatisfied with him, do you think your friend capable of advising

you to do a mean thing?" In short, with my accustomed weakness, I

suffered myself to be prevailed upon, and we went to sup with the baron,

who received me as he usually had done. But his wife received me coldly

and almost uncivilly. I saw nothing in her which resembled the amiable

Caroline, who, when a maid, expressed for me so many good wishes. I

thought I had already perceived that since Grimm had frequented the

house of D'Aine, I had not met there so friendly a reception.

Whilst I was at Paris, Saint Lambert arrived there from the army. As I

was not acquainted with his arrival, I did not see him until after my

return to the country, first at the Chevrette, and afterwards at the

Hermitage; to which he came with Madam d'Houdetot, and invited himself

to dinner with me. It may be judged whether or not I received him with

pleasure! But I felt one still greater at seeing the good understanding

between my guests. Satisfied with not having disturbed their happiness,

I myself was happy in being a witness to it, and I can safely assert

that, during the whole of my mad passion, and especially at the moment

of which I speak, had it been in my power to take from him Madam

d'Houdetot I would not have done it, nor should I have so much as been

tempted to undertake it. I found her so amiable in her passion for Saint

Lambert, that I could scarcely imagine she would have been as much so

had she loved me instead of him; and without wishing to disturb their

union, all I really desired of her was to permit herself to be loved.

Finally, however violent my passion may have been for this lady, I found

it as agreeable to be the confidant, as the object of her amours, and

I never for a moment considered her lover as a rival, but always as

my friend. It will be said this was not love: be it so, but it was

something more.

As for Saint Lambert, he behaved like an honest and judicious man: as

I was the only person culpable, so was I the only one who was punished;

this, however, was with the greatest indulgence. He treated me severely,

but in a friendly manner, and I perceived I had lost something in his

esteem, but not the least part of his friendship. For this I consoled

myself, knowing it would be much more easy to me to recover the one than

the other, and that he had too much sense to confound an involuntary

weakness and a passion with a vice of character. If even I were in fault

in all that had passed, I was but very little so. Had I first sought

after his mistress? Had not he himself sent her to me? Did not she come

in search of me? Could I avoid receiving her? What could I do? They

themselves had done the evil, and I was the person on whom it fell. In

my situation they would have done as much as I did, and perhaps more;

for, however estimable and faithful Madam d'Houdetot might be, she

was still a woman; her lover was absent; opportunities were frequent;

temptations strong; and it would have been very difficult for her

always to have defended herself with the same success against a more

enterprising man. We certainly had done a great deal in our situation,

in placing boundaries beyond which we never permitted ourselves to pass.

Although at the bottom of my heart I found evidence sufficiently

honorable in my favor, so many appearances were against me, that the

invincible shame always predominant in me, gave me in his presence the

appearance of guilt, and of this he took advantage for the purpose

of humbling me: a single circumstance will describe this reciprocal

situation. I read to him, after dinner, the letter I had written the

preceding year to Voltaire, and of which Saint Lambert had heard speak.

Whilst I was reading he fell asleep, and I, lately so haughty, at

present so foolish, dared not stop, and continued to read whilst he

continued to snore. Such were my indignities and such his revenge; but

his generosity never permitted him to exercise them; except between

ourselves.

After his return to the army, I found Madam d'Houdetot greatly changed

in her manner with me. At this I was as much surprised as if it had not

been what I ought to have expected; it affected me more than it ought to

have done, and did me considerable harm. It seemed that everything from

which I expected a cure, still plunged deeper into my heart the dart,

which I at length broke in rather than draw out.

I was quite determined to conquer myself, and leave no means untried to

change my foolish passion into a pure and lasting friendship. For this

purpose I had formed the finest projects in the world; for the execution

of which the concurrence of Madam d' Houdetot was necessary. When I

wished to speak to her I found her absent and embarrassed; I perceived I

was no longer agreeable to her, and that something had passed which

she would not communicate to me, and which I have never yet known. This

change, and the impossibility of knowing the reason of it, grieved me to

the heart.

She asked me for her letters; these I returned her with a fidelity of

which she did me the insult to doubt for a moment.

This doubt was another wound given to my heart, with which she must

have been so well acquainted. She did me justice, but not immediately:

I understood that an examination of the packet I had sent her, made her

perceive her error; I saw she reproached herself with it, by which I

was a gainer of something. She could not take back her letters without

returning me mine. She told me she had burnt them: of this I dared to

doubt in my turn, and I confess I doubt of it at this moment. No, such

letters as mine to her were, are never thrown into the fire. Those of

Eloisa have been found ardent.

Heavens! what would have been said of these! No, No, she who can inspire

a like passion, will never have the courage to burn the proofs of it.

But I am not afraid of her having made a bad use of them: of this I

do not think her capable; and besides I had taken proper measures to

prevent it. The foolish, but strong apprehension of raillery, had made

me begin this correspondence in a manner to secure my letters from all

communication. I carried the familiarity I permitted myself with her in

my intoxication so far as to speak to her in the singular number: but

what theeing and thouing! she certainly could not be offended with

it. Yet she several times complained, but this was always useless: her

complaints had no other effect than that of awakening my fears, and I

besides could not suffer myself to lose ground. If these letters be not

yet destroyed, and should they ever be made public, the world will see

in what manner I have loved.

The grief caused me by the coldness of Madam d'Houdetot, and the

certainty of not having merited it, made me take the singular resolution

to complain of it to Saint Lambert himself. While waiting the effect of

the letter I wrote to him, I sought dissipations to which I ought sooner

to have had recourse. Fetes were given at the Chevrette for which I

composed music. The pleasure of honoring myself in the eyes of Madam

d'Houdetot by a talent she loved, warmed my imagination, and another

object still contributed to give it animation, this was the desire the

author of the 'Devin du Village' had of showing he understood music;

for I had perceived some persons had, for a considerable time

past, endeavored to render this doubtful, at least with respect to

composition. My beginning at Paris, the ordeal through which I had

several times passed there, both at the house of M. Dupin and that of M.

de la Popliniere; the quantity of music I had composed during fourteen

years in the midst of the most celebrated masters and before their

eyes:--finally, the opera of the 'Muses Gallantes', and that even of the

'Devin'; a motet I had composed for Mademoiselle Fel, and which she had

sung at the spiritual concert; the frequent conferences I had had

upon this fine art with the first composers, all seemed to prevent or

dissipate a doubt of such a nature. This however existed even at the

Chevrette, and in the mind of M. d'Epinay himself. Without appearing to

observe it, I undertook to compose him a motet for the dedication of the

chapel of the Chevrette, and I begged him to make choice of the words.

He directed de Linant, the tutor to his son, to furnish me with these.

De Linant gave me words proper to the subject, and in a week after I had

received them the motet was finished. This time, spite was my Apollo,

and never did better music come from my hand. The words began with:

'Ecce sedes hic Tonantis'. (I have since learned these were by Santeuil,

and that M. de Linant had without scruple appropriated them to himself.)

The grandeur of the opening is suitable to the words, and the rest of

the motet is so elegantly harmonious that everyone was struck with it.

I had composed it for a great orchestra. D'Epinay procured the best

performers. Madam Bruna, an Italian singer, sung the motet, and was well

accompanied. The composition succeeded so well that it was afterwards

performed at the spiritual concert, where, in spite of secret cabals,

and notwithstanding it was badly executed, it was twice generally

applauded. I gave for the birthday of M. d'Epinay the idea of a kind of

piece half dramatic and half pantomimical, of which I also composed the

music. Grimm, on his arrival, heard speak of my musical success. An hour

afterwards not a word more was said on the subject; but there no longer

remained a doubt, not at least that I know of, of my knowledge of

composition.

Grimm was scarcely arrived at the Chevrette, where I already did not

much amuse myself, before he made it insupportable to me by airs I never

before saw in any person, and of which I had no idea. The evening before

he came, I was dislodged from the chamber of favor, contiguous to that

of Madam d'Epinay; it was prepared for Grimm, and instead of it, I was

put into another further off. "In this manner," said I, laughingly, to

Madam d'Epinay, "new-comers displace those which are established." She

seemed embarrassed. I was better acquainted the same evening with the

reason for the change, in learning that between her chamber and that I

had quitted there was a private door which she had thought needless to

show me. Her intercourse with Grimm was not a secret either in her

own house or to the public, not even to her husband; yet, far from

confessing it to me, the confidant of secrets more important to her, and

which was sure would be faithfully kept, she constantly denied it in the

strongest manner. I comprehended this reserve proceeded from Grimm, who,

though intrusted with all my secrets, did not choose I should be with

any of his.

However prejudiced I was in favor of this man by former sentiments,

which were not extinguished, and by the real merit he had, all was not

proof against the cares he took to destroy it. He received me like the

Comte de Tuffiere; he scarcely deigned to return my salute; he never

once spoke to me, and prevented my speaking to him by not making me any

answer; he everywhere passed first, and took the first place without

ever paying me the least attention. All this would have been supportable

had he not accompanied it with a shocking affectation, which may

be judged of by one example taken from a hundred. One evening Madam

d'Epinay, finding herself a little indisposed, ordered something for her

supper to be carried into her chamber, and went up stairs to sup by the

side of the fire. She asked me to go with her, which I did. Grimm came

afterwards. The little table was already placed, and there were but two

covers. Supper was served; Madam d' Epinay took her place on one side of

the fire, Grimm took an armed chair, seated himself at the other, drew

the little table between them, opened his napkin, and prepared himself

for eating without speaking to me a single word.

Madam d' Epinay blushed at his behavior, and, to induce him to repair

his rudeness, offered me her place. He said nothing, nor did he ever

look at me. Not being able to approach the fire, I walked about the

chamber until a cover was brought. Indisposed as I was, older than

himself, longer acquainted in the house than he had been, the person who

had introduced him there, and to whom as a favorite of the lady he ought

to have done the honors of it, he suffered me to sup at the end of

the table, at a distance from the fire, without showing me the least

civility. His whole behavior to me corresponded with this example of it.

He did not treat me precisely as his inferior, but he looked upon me as

a cipher. I could scarcely recognize the same Grimm, who, at the house

of the Prince de Saxe-Gotha, thought himself honored when I cast my

eyes upon him. I had still more difficulty in reconciling this profound

silence and insulting haughtiness with the tender friendship he

professed for me to those whom he knew to be real friends. It is true

the only proofs he gave of it was pitying my wretched fortune, of

which I did not complain; compassionating my sad fate, with which I was

satisfied; and lamenting to see me obstinately refuse the benevolent

services, he said, he wished to render me. Thus was it he artfully

made the world admire his affectionate generosity, blame my ungrateful

misanthropy, and insensibly accustomed people to imagine there was

nothing more between a protector like him and a wretch like myself, than

a connection founded upon benefactions on one part and obligations on

the other, without once thinking of a friendship between equals. For my

part, I have vainly sought to discover in what I was under an obligation

to this new protector. I had lent him money, he had never lent me any;

I had attended him in his illness, he scarcely came to see me in mine;

I had given him all my friends, he never had given me any of his; I had

said everything I could in his favor, and if ever he has spoken of me

it has been less publicly and in another manner. He has never either

rendered or offered me the least service of any kind. How, therefore,

was he my Mecaenas? In what manner was I protected by him? This was

incomprehensible to me, and still remains so.

It is true, he was more or less arrogant with everybody, but I was the

only person with whom he was brutally so. I remember Saint Lambert once

ready to throw a plate at his head, upon his, in some measure, giving

him the lie at table by vulgarly saying, "That is not true." With his

naturally imperious manner he had the self-sufficiency of an upstart,

and became ridiculous by being extravagantly impertinent. An intercourse

with the great had so far intoxicated him that he gave himself airs

which none but the contemptible part of them ever assume. He never

called his lackey but by "Eh!" as if amongst the number of his servants

my lord had not known which was in waiting. When he sent him to buy

anything, he threw the money upon the ground instead of putting it into

his hand. In short, entirely forgetting he was a man, he treated him

with such shocking contempt, and so cruel a disdain in everything, that

the poor lad, a very good creature, whom Madam d'Epinay had recommended,

quitted his service without any other complaint than that of the

impossibility of enduring such treatment. This was the la Fleur of this

new presuming upstart.

As these things were nothing more than ridiculous, but quite opposite to

my character, they contributed to render him suspicious to me. I could

easily imagine that a man whose head was so much deranged could not

have a heart well placed. He piqued himself upon nothing so much as

upon sentiments. How could this agree with defects which are peculiar to

little minds? How can the continued overflowings of a susceptible heart

suffer it to be incessantly employed in so many little cares relative

to the person? He who feels his heart inflamed with this celestial fire

strives to diffuse it, and wishes to show what he internally is. He

would wish to place his heart in his countenance, and thinks not of

other paint for his cheeks.

I remember the summary of his morality which Madam d'Epinay had

mentioned to me and adopted. This consisted in one single article; that

the sole duty of man is to follow all the inclinations of his heart.

This morality, when I heard it mentioned, gave me great matter of

reflection, although I at first considered it solely as a play of wit.

But I soon perceived it was a principle really the rule of his

conduct, and of which I afterwards had, at my own expense, but too many

convincing proofs. It is the interior doctrine Diderot has so frequently

intimated to me, but which I never heard him explain.

I remember having several years before been frequently told that Grimm

was false, that he had nothing more than the appearance of sentiment,

and particularly that he did not love me. I recollected several little

anecdotes which I had heard of him by M. de Francueil and Madam de

Chenonceaux, neither of whom esteemed him, and to whom he must have been

known, as Madam de Chenonceaux was daughter to Madam de Rochechouart,

the intimate friend of the late Comte de Friese, and that M. de

Francueil, at that time very intimate with the Viscount de Polignac,

had lived a good deal at the Palais Royal precisely when Grimm began to

introduce himself there. All Paris heard of his despair after the death

of the Comte de Friese. It was necessary to support the reputation he

had acquired after the rigors of Mademoiselle Fel, and of which I, more

than any other person, should have seen the imposture, had I been less

blind. He was obliged to be dragged to the Hotel de Castries where

he worthily played his part, abandoned to the most mortal affliction.

There, he every morning went into the garden to weep at his ease,

holding before his eyes his handkerchief moistened with tears, as long

as he was in sight of the hotel, but at the turning of a certain

alley, people, of whom he little thought, saw him instantly put his

handkerchief in his pocket and take out of it a book. This observation,

which was repeatedly made, soon became public in Paris, and was almost

as soon forgotten. I myself had forgotten it; a circumstance in which I

was concerned brought it to my recollection. I was at the point of death

in my bed, in the Rue de Grenelle, Grimm was in the country; he came one

morning, quite out of breath, to see me, saying, he had arrived in town

that very instant; and a moment afterwards I learned he had arrived the

evening before, and had been seen at the theatre.

I heard many things of the same kind; but an observation, which I was

surprised not to have made sooner, struck me more than anything else.

I had given to Grimm all my friends without exception, they were

become his. I was so inseparable from him, that I should have had some

difficulty in continuing to visit at a house where he was not received.

Madam de Crequi was the only person who refused to admit him into her

company, and whom for that reason I have seldom since seen. Grimm on his

part made himself other friends, as well by his own means, as by those

of the Comte de Friese. Of all these not one of them ever became my

friend: he never said a word to induce me even to become acquainted with

them, and not one of those I sometimes met at his apartments ever showed

me the least good will; the Comte de Friese, in whose house he lived,

and with whom it consequently would have been agreeable to me to form

some connection, not excepted, nor the Comte de Schomberg, his relation,

with whom Grimm was still more intimate.

Add to this, my own friends, whom I made his, and who were all tenderly

attached to me before this acquaintance, were no longer so the moment it

was made. He never gave me one of his. I gave him all mine, and these he

has taken from me. If these be the effects of friendship, what are those

of enmity?

Diderot himself told me several times at the beginning that Grimm

in whom I had so much confidence, was not my friend. He changed his

language the moment he was no longer so himself.

The manner in which I had disposed of my children wanted not the

concurrence of any person. Yet I informed some of my friends of it,

solely to make it known to them, and that I might not in their eyes

appear better than I was. These friends were three in number: Diderot,

Grimm, and Madam d'Epinay. Duclos, the most worthy of my confidence, was

the only real friend whom I did not inform of it. He nevertheless knew

what I had done. By whom? This I know not. It is not very probable

the perfidy came from Madam d'Epinay, who knew that by following her

example, had I been capable of doing it, I had in my power the means of

a cruel revenge. It remains therefore between Grimm and Diderot, then

so much united, especially against me, and it is probable this crime was

common to them both. I would lay a wager that Duclos, to whom I never

told my secret, and who consequently was at liberty to make what use he

pleased of his information, is the only person who has not spoken of it

again.

Grimm and Diderot, in their project to take from me the governesses,

had used the greatest efforts to make Duclos enter into their views; but

this he refused to do with disdain. It was not until sometime afterwards

that I learned from him what had passed between them on the subject;

but I learned at the time from Theresa enough to perceive there was some

secret design, and that they wished to dispose of me, if not against

my own consent, at least without my knowledge, or had an intention of

making these two persons serve as instruments of some project they had

in view. This was far from upright conduct. The opposition of Duclos

is a convincing proof of it. They who think proper may believe it to be

friendship.

This pretended friendship was as fatal to me at home as it was abroad.

The long and frequent conversations with Madam le Vasseur, for several

years past, had made a sensible change in this woman's behavior to me,

and the change was far from being in my favor. What was the subject

of these singular conversations? Why such a profound mystery? Was the

conversation of that old woman agreeable enough to take her into favor,

and of sufficient importance to make of it so great a secret? During

the two or three years these colloquies had, from time to time, been

continued, they had appeared to me ridiculous; but when I thought of

them again, they began to astonish me. This astonishment would have

been carried to inquietude had I then known what the old creature was

preparing for me.

Notwithstanding the pretended zeal for my welfare of which Grimm made

such a public boast, difficult to reconcile with the airs he gave

himself when we were together, I heard nothing of him from any quarter

the least to my advantage, and his feigned commiseration tended less to

do me service than to render me contemptible. He deprived me as much

as he possibly could of the resource I found in the employment I had

chosen, by decrying me as a bad copyist. I confess he spoke the truth;

but in this case it was not for him to do it. He proved himself in

earnest by employing another copyist, and prevailing upon everybody he

could, by whom I was engaged, to do the same. His intention might have

been supposed to be that of reducing me to a dependence upon him and his

credit for a subsistence, and to cut off the latter until I was brought

to that degree of distress.

All things considered, my reason imposed silence upon my former

prejudice, which still pleaded in his favor. I judged his character to

be at least suspicious, and with respect to his friendship I positively

decided it to be false. I then resolved to see him no more, and informed

Madam d'Epinay of the resolution I had taken, supporting, it with

several unanswerable facts, but which I have now forgotten.

She strongly combated my resolution without knowing how to reply to the

reasons on which it was founded. She had not concerted with him; but

the next day, instead of explaining herself verbally, she, with great

address, gave me a letter they had drawn up together, and by which,

without entering into a detail of facts, she justified him by his

concentrated character, attributed to me as a crime my having suspected

him of perfidy towards his friend, and exhorted me to come to an

accommodation with him. This letter staggered me. In a conversation we

afterwards had together, and in which I found her better prepared than

she had been the first time, I suffered myself to be quite prevailed

upon, and was inclined to believe I might have judged erroneously. In

this case I thought I really had done a friend a very serious injury,

which it was my duty to repair. In short, as I had already done several

times with Diderot, and the Baron d'Holbach, half from inclination, and

half from weakness, I made all the advances I had a right to require; I

went to M. Grimm, like another George Dandin, to make him my apologies

for the offence he had given me; still in the false persuasion, which,

in the course of my life has made me guilty of a thousand meannesses to

my pretended friends, that there is no hatred which may not be disarmed

by mildness and proper behavior; whereas, on the contrary, the hatred of

the wicked becomes still more envenomed by the impossibility of finding

anything to found it upon, and the sentiment of their own injustice is

another cause of offence against the person who is the object of it. I

have, without going further than my own history, a strong proof of this

maxim in Grimm, and in Tronchin; both became my implacable enemies from

inclination, pleasure and fancy, without having been able to charge

me with having done either of them the most trifling injury, and whose

rage, like that of tigers, becomes daily more fierce by the facility of

satiating it.

[I did not give the surname of Jongleur to the latter until a

long time after his enmity had been declared, and the persecutions

he brought upon me at Geneva and elsewhere. I soon suppressed the

name the moment I perceived I was entirely his victim. Mean

vengeance is unworthy of my heart, and hatred never takes the least

root in it.]

I expected that Grimm, confused by my condescension and advances, would

receive me with open arms, and the most tender friendship. He received

me as a Roman Emperor would have done, and with a haughtiness I never

saw in any person but himself. I was by no means prepared for such a

reception. When, in the embarrassment of the part I had to act, and

which was so unworthy of me, I had, in a few words and with a timid air,

fulfilled the object which had brought me to him; before he received me

into favor, he pronounced, with a deal of majesty, an harangue he had

prepared, and which contained a long enumeration of his rare virtues,

and especially those connected with friendship. He laid great stress

upon a thing which at first struck me a great deal: this was his having

always preserved the same friends. Whilst he was yet speaking, I said to

myself, it would be cruel for me to be the only exception to this rule.

He returned to the subject so frequently, and with such emphasis, that I

thought, if in this he followed nothing but the sentiments of his heart,

he would be less struck with the maxim, and that he made of it an art

useful to his views by procuring the means of accomplishing them. Until

then I had been in the same situation; I had preserved all my first

friends, those even from my tenderest infancy, without having lost one

of them except by death, and yet I had never before made the reflection:

it was not a maxim I had prescribed myself. Since, therefore, the

advantage was common to both, why did he boast of it in preference, if

he had not previously intended to deprive me of the merit? He afterwards

endeavored to humble me by proofs of the preference our common friends

gave to him. With this I was as well acquainted as himself; the question

was, by what means he had obtained it? whether it was by merit or

address? by exalting himself, or endeavoring to abase me? At last, when

he had placed between us all the distance that he could add to the value

of the favor he was about to confer, he granted me the kiss of peace,

in a slight embrace which resembled the accolade which the king gives to

newmade knights. I was stupefied with surprise: I knew not what to say;

not a word could I utter. The whole scene had the appearance of the

reprimand a preceptor gives to his pupil while he graciously spares

inflicting the rod. I never think of it without perceiving to what

degree judgments, founded upon appearances to which the vulgar give so

much weight, are deceitful, and how frequently audaciousness and pride

are found in the guilty, and shame and embarrassment in the innocent.

We were reconciled: this was a relief to my heart, which every kind of

quarrel fills with anguish. It will naturally be supposed that a like

reconciliation changed nothing in his manners; all it effected was to

deprive me of the right of complaining of them. For this reason I took a

resolution to endure everything, and for the future to say not a word.

So many successive vexations overwhelmed me to such a degree as to

leave me but little power over my mind. Receiving no answer from Saint

Lambert, neglected by Madam d'Houdetot, and no longer daring to open my

heart to any person, I began to be afraid that by making friendship my

idol, I should sacrifice my whole life to chimeras. After putting all

those with whom I had been acquainted to the test, there remained but

two who had preserved my esteem, and in whom my heart could confide:

Duclos, of whom since my retreat to the Hermitage I had lost sight, and

Saint Lambert. I thought the only means of repairing the wrongs I

had done the latter, was to open myself to him without reserve, and I

resolved to confess to him everything by which his mistress should not

be exposed. I have no doubt but this was another snare of my passions to

keep me nearer to her person; but I should certainly have had no reserve

with her lover, entirely submitting to his direction, and carrying

sincerity as far as it was possible to do it. I was upon the point of

writing to him a second letter, to which I was certain he would have

returned an answer, when I learned the melancholy cause of his silence

relative to the first. He had been unable to support until the end

the fatigues of the campaign. Madam d'Epinay informed me he had had an

attack of the palsy, and Madam d'Houdetot, ill from affliction, wrote me

two or three days after from Paris, that he was going to Aix-la-Chapelle

to take the benefit of the waters. I will not say this melancholy

circumstance afflicted me as it did her; but I am of opinion my grief of

heart was as painful as her tears. The pain of knowing him to be in such

a state, increased by the fear least inquietude should have contributed

to occasion it, affected me more than anything that had yet happened,

and I felt most cruelly a want of fortitude, which in my estimation

was necessary to enable me to support so many misfortunes. Happily this

generous friend did not long leave me so overwhelmed with affliction; he

did not forget me, notwithstanding his attack; and I soon learned from

himself that I had ill judged his sentiments, and been too much alarmed

for his situation. It is now time I should come to the grand revolution

of my destiny, to the catastrophe which has divided my life in two parts

so different from each other, and, from a very trifling cause, produced

such terrible effects.

One day, little thinking of what was to happen, Madam d'Epinay sent for

me to the Chevrette. The moment I saw her I perceived in her eyes and

whole countenance an appearance of uneasiness, which struck me the more,

as this was not customary, nobody knowing better than she did how to

govern her features and her movements. "My friend," said she to me, "I

am immediately going to set off for Geneva; my breast is in a bad state,

and my health so deranged that I must go and consult Tronchin." I was

the more astonished at this resolution so suddenly taken, and at the

beginning of the bad season of the year, as thirty-six hours before she

had not, when I left her, so much as thought of it. I asked her who she

would take with her. She said her son and M. de Linant; and afterwards

carelessly added, "And you, dear, will not you go also?" As I did not

think she spoke seriously, knowing that at the season of the year I was

scarcely in a situation to go to my chamber, I joked upon the utility of

the company, of one sick person to another. She herself had not seemed

to make the proposition seriously, and here the matter dropped. The rest

of our conversation ran upon the necessary preparations for her journey,

about which she immediately gave orders, being determined to set off

within a fortnight. She lost nothing by my refusal, having prevailed

upon her husband to accompany her.

A few days afterwards I received from Diderot the note I am going to

transcribe. This note, simply doubled up, so that the contents were

easily read, was addressed to me at Madam d'Epinay's, and sent to M. de

Linant, tutor to the son, and confidant to the mother.

NOTE FROM DIDEROT.

"I am naturally disposed to love you, and am born to give you trouble.

I am informed Madam d'Epinay is going to Geneva, and do not hear you are

to accompany her. My friend, you are satisfied with Madam d'Epinay, you

must go, with her; if dissatisfied you ought still less to hesitate. Do

you find the weight of the obligations you are under to her uneasy to

you? This is an opportunity of discharging a part of them, and relieving

your mind. Do you ever expect another opportunity like the present one,

of giving her proofs of your gratitude? She is going to a country where

she will be quite a stranger. She is ill, and will stand in need of

amusement and dissipation. The winter season too! Consider, my friend.

Your ill state of health may be a much greater objection than I think it

is; but are you now more indisposed than you were a month ago, or than

you will be at the beginning of spring? Will you three months hence be

in a situation to perform the journey more at your ease than at present?

For my part I cannot but observe to you that were I unable to bear the

shaking of the carriage I would take my staff and follow her. Have

you no fears lest your conduct should be misinterpreted? You will be

suspected of ingratitude or of a secret motive. I well know, that let

you do as you will you will have in your favor the testimony of your

conscience, but will this alone be sufficient, and is it permitted

to neglect to a certain degree that which is necessary to acquire the

approbation of others? What I now write, my good friend, is to acquit

myself of what I think I owe to us both. Should my letter displease

you, throw it into the fire and let it be forgotten. I salute, love and

embrace you."

Although trembling and almost blind with rage whilst I read this

epistle, I remarked the address with which Diderot affected a milder

and more polite language than he had done in his former ones, wherein he

never went further than "My dear," without ever deigning to add the name

of friend. I easily discovered the secondhand means by which the letter

was conveyed to me; the subscription, manner and form awkwardly betrayed

the manoeuvre; for we commonly wrote to each other by post, or the

messenger of Montmorency, and this was the first and only time he sent

me his letter by any other conveyance.

As soon as the first transports of my indignation permitted me to write,

I, with great precipitation, wrote him the following answer, which I

immediately carried from the Hermitage, where I then was, to Chevrette,

to show it to Madam d' Epinay; to whom, in my blind rage, I read the

contents, as well as the letter from Diderot.

"You cannot, my dear friend, either know the magnitude of the

obligations I am under to Madam d'Epinay, to what a degree I am bound by

them, whether or not she is desirous of my accompanying her, that this

is possible, or the reasons I may have for my noncompliance. I have

no objection to discuss all these points with you; but you will in the

meantime confess that prescribing to me so positively what I ought to

do, without first enabling yourself to judge of the matter, is, my

dear philosopher, acting very inconsiderately. What is still worse, I

perceive the opinion you give comes not from yourself. Besides my being

but little disposed to suffer myself to be led by the nose under your

name by any third or fourth person, I observe in this secondary advice

certain underhand dealing, which ill agrees with your candor, and from

which you will on your account, as well as mine, do well in future to

abstain.

"You are afraid my conduct should be misinterpreted; but I defy a heart

like yours to think ill of mine. Others would perhaps speak better of

me if I resembled them more. God preserve me from gaining their

approbation! Let the vile and wicked watch over my conduct and

misinterpret my actions, Rousseau is not a man to be afraid of them, nor

is Diderot to be prevailed upon to hearken to what they say.

"If I am displeased with your letter, you wish me to throw it into the

fire, and pay no attention to the contents. Do you imagine that anything

coming from you can be forgotten in such a manner? You hold, my dear

friend, my tears as cheap in the pain you give me, as you do my life and

health, in the cares you exhort me to take. Could you but break yourself

of this, your friendship would be more pleasing to me, and I should be

less to be pitied."

On entering the chamber of Madam d'Epinay I found Grimm with her, with

which I was highly delighted. I read to them, in a loud and clear voice,

the two letters, with an intrepidity of which I should not have thought

myself capable, and concluded with a few observations not in the least

derogatory to it. At this unexpected audacity in a man generally timid,

they were struck dumb with surprise; I perceived that arrogant man look

down upon the ground, not daring to meet my eyes, which sparkled

with indignation; but in the bottom of his heart he from that instant

resolved upon my destruction, and, with Madam d' Epinay, I am certain

concerted measures to that effect before they separated.

It was much about this time that I at length received, by Madam

d'Houdetot, the answer from Saint Lambert, dated from Wolfenbüttel, a

few days after the accident had happened to him, to my letter which had

been long delayed upon the road. This answer gave me the consolation of

which I then stood so much in need; it was full of assurance of esteem

and friendship, and these gave me strength and courage to deserve

them. From that moment I did my duty, but had Saint Lambert been less

reasonable, generous and honest, I was inevitably lost.

The season became bad, and people began to quit the country. Madam

d'Houdetot informed me of the day on which she intended to come and bid

adieu to the valley, and gave me a rendezvous at Eaubonne. This happened

to be the same day on which Madam d'Epinay left the Chevrette to go

to Paris for the purpose of completing preparations for her journey.

Fortunately she set off in the morning, and I had still time to go and

dine with her sister-in-law. I had the letter from Saint Lambert in my

pocket, and read it over several times as I walked along, This letter

served me as a shield against my weakness. I made and kept to the

resolution of seeing nothing in Madam d'Houdetot but my friend and the

mistress of Saint Lambert; and I passed with her a tete-a-tete of four

hours in a most delicious calm, infinitely preferable, even with respect

to enjoyment, to the paroxysms of a burning fever, which, always, until

that moment, I had had when in her presence. As she too well knew my

heart not to be changed, she was sensible of the efforts I made to

conquer myself, and esteemed me the more for them, and I had the

pleasure of perceiving that her friendship for me was not extinguished.

She announced to me the approaching return of Saint Lambert, who,

although well enough recovered from his attack, was unable to bear the

fatigues of war, and was quitting the service to come and live in peace

with her. We formed the charming project of an intimate connection

between us three, and had reason to hope it would be lasting, since it

was founded on every sentiment by which honest and susceptible hearts

could be united; and we had moreover amongst us all the knowledge and

talents necessary to be sufficient to ourselves without the aid of

any foreign supplement. Alas! in abandoning myself to the hope of so

agreeable a life I little suspected that which awaited me.

We afterwards spoke of my situation with Madam d'Epinay. I showed

her the letter from Diderot, with my answer to it; I related to her

everything that had passed upon the subject, and declared to her my

resolution of quitting the Hermitage.

This she vehemently opposed, and by reasons all powerful over my heart.

She expressed to me how much she could have wished I had been of the

party to Geneva, foreseeing she should inevitably be considered as

having caused the refusal, which the letter of Diderot seemed previously

to announce. However, as she was acquainted with my reasons, she did

not insist upon this point, but conjured me to avoid coming to an open

rupture let it cost me what mortification it would, and to palliate

my refusal by reasons sufficiently plausible to put away all unjust

suspicions of her having been the cause of it. I told her the task she

imposed on me was not easy; but that, resolved to expiate my faults at

the expense of my reputation, I would give the preference to hers in

everything that honor permitted me to suffer. It will soon be seen

whether or not I fulfilled this engagement.

My passion was so far from having lost any part of its force that I

never in my life loved my Sophia so ardently and tenderly as on that

day, but such was the impression made upon me by the letter of Saint

Lambert, the sentiment of my duty and the horror in which I held

perfidy, that during the whole time of the interview my senses left me

in peace, and I was not so much as tempted to kiss her hand. At parting

she embraced me before her servants. This embrace, so different from

those I had sometimes stolen from her under the foliage, proved I was

become master of myself; and I am certain that had my mind, undisturbed,

had time to acquire more firmness, three months would have cured me

radically.

Here ends my personal connections with Madam d'Houdetot; connections

of which each has been able to judge by appearance according to the

disposition of his own heart, but in which the passion inspired me by

that amiable woman, the most lively passion, perhaps, man ever felt,

will be honorable in our own eyes by the rare and painful sacrifice we

both made to duty, honor, love, and friendship. We each had too high

an opinion of the other easily to suffer ourselves to do anything

derogatory to our dignity. We must have been unworthy of all esteem

had we not set a proper value upon one like this, and the energy of my

sentiments which have rendered us culpable, was that which prevented us

from becoming so.

Thus after a long friendship for one of these women, and the strongest

affection for the other, I bade them both adieu the same day, to

one never to see her more, to the other to see her again twice, upon

occasions of which I shall hereafter speak.

After their departure, I found myself much embarrassed to fulfill

so many pressing and contradictory duties, the consequences of my

imprudence; had I been in my natural situation, after the proposition

and refusal of the journey to Geneva, I had only to remain quiet, and

everything was as it should be. But I had foolishly made of it an affair

which could not remain in the state it was, and an explanation was

absolutely necessary, unless I quitted the Hermitage, which I had just

promised Madam d'Houdetot not to do, at least for the present. Moreover

she had required me to make known the reasons for my refusal to my

pretended friends, that it might not be imputed to her. Yet I could not

state the true reason without doing an outrage to Madam d'Epinay, who

certainly had a right to my gratitude for what she had done for me.

Everything well considered, I found myself reduced to the severe but

indispensable necessity of failing in respect, either to Madam d'Upinay,

Madam d'Houdetot or to myself; and it was the last I resolved to make

my victim. This I did without hesitation, openly and fully, and with so

much generosity as to make the act worthy of expiating the faults which

had reduced me to such an extremity. This sacrifice, taken advantage of

by my enemies, and which they, perhaps, did not expect, has ruined my

reputation, and by their assiduity, deprived me of the esteem of the

public; but it has restored to me my own, and given me consolation in

my misfortune. This, as it will hereafter appear, is not the last time I

made such a sacrifice, nor that advantages were taken of it to do me an

injury.

Grimm was the only person who appeared to have taken no part in the

affair, and it was to him I determined to address myself. I wrote him a

long letter, in which I set forth the ridiculousness of considering it

as my duty to accompany Madam d' Epinay to Geneva, the inutility of the

measure, and the embarrassment even it would have caused her, besides

the inconvenience to myself. I could not resist the temptation of

letting him perceive in this letter how fully I was informed in what

manner things were arranged, and that to me it appeared singular I

should be expected to undertake the journey whilst he himself dispensed

with it, and that his name was never mentioned. This letter, wherein,

on account of my not being able clearly to state my reasons, I was often

obliged to wander from the text, would have rendered me culpable in the

eyes of the public, but it was a model of reservedness and discretion

for the people who, like Grimm, were fully acquainted with the things

I forbore to mention, and which justified my conduct. I did not even

hesitate to raise another prejudice against myself in attributing the

advice of Diderot, to my other friends. This I did to insinuate that

Madam d'Houdetot had been in the same opinion as she really was, and

in not mentioning that, upon the reasons I gave her, she thought

differently, I could not better remove the suspicion of her having

connived at my proceedings than appearing dissatisfied with her

behavior.

This letter was concluded by an act of confidence which would have had

an effect upon any other man; for, in desiring Grimm to weigh my reasons

and afterwards to give me his opinion, I informed him that, let this be

what it would, I should act accordingly, and such was my intention had

he even thought I ought to set off; for M. d'Epinay having appointed

himself the conductor of his wife, my going with them would then have

had a different appearance; whereas it was I who, in the first place,

was asked to take upon me that employment, and he was out of the

question until after my refusal.

The answer from Grimm was slow incoming; it was singular enough, on

which account I will here transcribe it.

"The departure of Madam d'Epinay is postponed; her son is ill, and it

is necessary to wait until his health is re-established. I will consider

the contents of your letter. Remain quiet at your Hermitage. I will send

you my opinion as soon as this shall be necessary. As she will certainly

not set off for some days, there is no immediate occasion for it. In the

meantime you may, if you think proper, make her your offers, although

this to me seems a matter of indifference. For, knowing your situation

as well as you do yourself, I doubt not of her returning to your offer

such an answer as she ought to do; and all the advantage which, in my

opinion, can result from this, will be your having it in your power to

say to those by whom you may be importuned, that your not being of the

travelling party was not for want of having made your offers to that

effect. Moreover, I do not see why you will absolutely have it that the

philosopher is the speaking-trumpet of all the world, nor because he

is of opinion you ought to go, why you should imagine all your friends

think as he does? If you write to Madam d'Epinay, her answer will be

yours to all your friends, since you have it so much at heart to give

them all an answer. Adieu. I embrace Madam le Vasseur and the Criminal."

[M. le Vasseur, whose wife governed him rather rudely, called her

the Lieutenant Criminal. Grimm in a joke gave the same name to the

daughter, and by way of abridgment was pleased to retrench the first

word.]

Struck with astonishment at reading this letter I vainly endeavored to

find out what it meant. How! instead of answering me with simplicity,

he took time to consider of what I had written, as if the time he

had already taken was not sufficient! He intimates even the state of

suspense in which he wishes to keep me, as if a profound problem was to

be resolved, or that it was of importance to his views to deprive me of

every means of comprehending his intentions until the moment he should

think proper to make them known. What therefore did he mean by these

precautions, delays, and mysteries? Was this manner of acting consistent

with honor and uprightness? I vainly sought for some favorable

interpretation of his conduct; it was impossible to find one. Whatever

his design might be, were this inimical to me, his situation facilitated

the execution of it without its being possible for me in mine to oppose

the least obstacle. In favor in the house of a great prince, having an

extensive acquaintance, and giving the tone to common circles of which

he was the oracle, he had it in his power, with his usual address,

to dispose everything in his favor; and I, alone in my Hermitage, far

removed from all society, without the benefit of advice, and having no

communication with the world, had nothing to do but to remain in peace.

All I did was to write to Madam d'Epinay upon the illness of her son,

as polite a letter as could be written, but in which I did not fall into

the snare of offering to accompany her to Geneva.

After waiting for a long time in the most cruel uncertainty, into which

that barbarous man had plunged me, I learned, at the expiration of eight

or ten days, that Madam d'Epinay was set off, and received from him a

second letter. It contained not more than seven or eight lines which I

did not entirely read. It was a rupture, but in such terms as the most

infernal hatred only can dictate, and these became unmeaning by the

excessive degree of acrimony with which he wished to charge them. He

forbade me his presence as he would have forbidden me his states. All

that was wanting to his letter to make it laughable, was to be read over

with coolness. Without taking a copy of it, or reading the whole of the

contents, I returned it him immediately, accompanied by the following

note:

"I refused to admit the force of the just reasons I had of suspicion:

I now, when it is too late, am become sufficiently acquainted with your

character.

"This then is the letter upon which you took time to meditate: I return

it to you, it is not for me. You may show mine to the whole world and

hate me openly; this on your part will be a falsehood the less."

My telling he might show my preceding letter related to an article in

his by which his profound address throughout the whole affair will be

judged of.

I have observed that my letter might inculpate me in the eyes of persons

unacquainted with the particulars of what had passed. This he was

delighted to discover; but how was he to take advantage of it without

exposing himself? By showing the letter he ran the risk of being

reproached with abusing the confidence of his friend.

To relieve himself from this embarrassment he resolved to break with me

in the most violent manner possible, and to set forth in his letter

the favor he did me in not showing mine. He was certain that in my

indignation and anger I should refuse his feigned discretion, and permit

him to show my letter to everybody; this was what he wished for, and

everything turned out as he expected it would. He sent my letter all

over Paris, with his own commentaries upon it, which, however, were not

so successful as he had expected them to be. It was not judged that the

permission he had extorted to make my letter public exempted him from

the blame of having so lightly taken me at my word to do me an injury.

People continually asked what personal complaints he had against me to

authorize so violent a hatred. Finally, it was thought that if even my

behavior had been such as to authorize him to break with me, friendship,

although extinguished, had rights which he ought to have respected. But

unfortunately the inhabitants of Paris are frivolous; remarks of the

moment are soon forgotten; the absent and unfortunate are neglected;

the man who prospers secures favor by his presence; the intriguing and

malicious support each other, renew their vile efforts, and the effects

of these, incessantly succeeding each other, efface everything by which

they were preceded.

Thus, after having so long deceived me, this man threw aside his mask;

convinced that, in the state to which he had brought things, he no

longer stood in need of it. Relieved from the fear of being unjust

towards the wretch, I left him to his reflections, and thought no more

of him. A week afterwards I received an answer from Madam d'Epinay,

dated from Geneva. I understood from the manner of her letter, in which

for the first time in her life, she put on airs of state with me,

that both depending but little upon the success of their measures, and

considering me a man inevitably lost, their intentions were to give

themselves the pleasure of completing my destruction.

In fact, my situation was deplorable. I perceived all my friends

withdrew themselves from me without knowing how or for why. Diderot, who

boasted of the continuation of his attachment, and who, for three months

past, had promised me a visit, did not come. The winter began to

make its appearance, and brought with it my habitual disorders. My

constitution, although vigorous, had been unequal to the combat of so

many opposite passions. I was so exhausted that I had neither strength

nor courage sufficient to resist the most trifling indisposition. Had

my engagements, and the continued remonstrances of Diderot and Madam

d'Houdetot then permitted me to quit the Hermitage, I knew not where

to go, nor in what manner to drag myself along. I remained stupid and

immovable. The idea alone of a step to take, a letter to write, or a

word to say, made me tremble. I could not however do otherwise than

reply to the letter of Madam d'Epinay without acknowledging myself to be

worthy of the treatment with which she and her friend overwhelmed me.

I determined upon notifying to her my sentiments and resolutions, not

doubting a moment that from humanity, generosity, propriety, and

the good manner of thinking, I imagined I had observed in her,

notwithstanding her bad one, she would immediately subscribe to them. My

letter was as follows:

HERMITAGE 23d NOV., 1757.

"Were it possible to die of grief I should not now be alive.

"But I have at length determined to triumph over everything. Friendship,

madam, is extinguished between us, but that which no longer exists still

has its rights, and I respect them.

"I have not forgotten your goodness to me, and you may, on my part,

expect as much gratitude as it is possible to have towards a person I no

longer can love. All further explanation would be useless. I have in my

favor my own conscience, and I return you your letter.

"I wished to quit the Hermitage, and I ought to have done it. My friends

pretend I must stay there until spring; and since my friends desire it I

will remain there until that season if you will consent to my stay."

After writing and despatching this letter all I thought of was remaining

quiet at the Hermitage and taking care of my health; of endeavoring to

recover my strength, and taking measures to remove in the spring without

noise or making the rupture public. But these were not the intentions

either of Grimm or Madam d'Epinay, as it will presently appear.

A few days afterwards, I had the pleasure of receiving from Diderot the

visit he had so frequently promised, and in which he had as constantly

failed. He could not have come more opportunely; he was my oldest

friend: almost the only one who remained to me; the pleasure I felt in

seeing him, as things were circumstanced, may easily be imagined. My

heart was full, and I disclosed it to him. I explained to him several

facts which either had not come to his knowledge, or had been disguised

or suppressed. I informed him, as far as I could do it with propriety,

of all that had passed. I did not affect to conceal from him that

with which he was but too well acquainted, that a passion equally

unreasonable and unfortunate, had been the cause of my destruction; but

I never acknowledged that Madam d'Houdetot had been made acquainted with

it, or at least that I had declared it to her. I mentioned to him the

unworthy manoeuvres of Madam d'Epinay to intercept the innocent letters

her sister-in-law wrote to me. I was determined he should hear the

particulars from the mouth of the persons whom she had attempted to

seduce. Theresa related them with great precision; but what was my

astonishment when the mother came to speak, and I heard her declare and

maintain that nothing of this had come to her knowledge? These were

her words from which she would never depart. Not four days before she

herself had recited to me all the particulars Theresa had just stated,

and in presence of my friend she contradicted me to my face. This, to

me, was decisive, and I then clearly saw my imprudence in having so long

a time kept such a woman near me. I made no use of invective; I scarcely

deigned to speak to her a few words of contempt. I felt what I owed to

the daughter, whose steadfast uprightness was a perfect contrast to the

base monoeuvres of the mother. But from the instant my resolution was

taken relative to the old woman, and I waited for nothing but the moment

to put it into execution.

This presented itself sooner than I expected. On the 10th of December

I received from Madam d'Epinay the following answer to my preceding

letter:

GENEVA, 1st December, 1757.

"After having for several years given you every possible mark of

friendship all I can now do is to pity you. You are very unhappy. I wish

your conscience may be as calm as mine. This may be necessary to the

repose of your whole life.

"Since you are determined to quit the Hermitage, and are persuaded that

you ought to do it, I am astonished your friends have prevailed upon you

to stay there. For my part I never consult mine upon my duty, and I have

nothing further to say to you upon your own."

Such an unforeseen dismission, and so fully pronounced, left me not

a moment to hesitate. It was necessary to quit immediately, let the

weather and my health be in what state they might, although I were to

sleep in the woods and upon the snow, with which the ground was then

covered, and in defiance of everything Madam d'Houdetot might say; for

I was willing to do everything to please her except render myself

infamous.

I never had been so embarrassed in my whole life as I then was; but my

resolution was taken. I swore, let what would happen, not to sleep at

the Hermitage on the night of that day week. I began to prepare for

sending away my effects, resolving to leave them in the open field

rather than not give up the key in the course of the week: for I was

determined everything should be done before a letter could be written

to Geneva, and an answer to it received. I never felt myself so inspired

with courage: I had recovered all my strength. Honor and indignation,

upon which Madam d'Epinay had not calculated, contributed to restore me

to vigor. Fortune aided my audacity. M. Mathas, fiscal procurer, heard

of my embarrassment. He sent to offer me a little house he had in his

garden of Mont Louis, at Montmorency. I accepted it with eagerness

and gratitude. The bargain was soon concluded: I immediately sent to

purchase a little furniture to add to that we already had. My effects

I had carted away with a deal of trouble, and a great expense:

notwithstanding the ice and snow my removal was completed in a couple

of days, and on the fifteenth of December I gave up the keys of the

Hermitage, after having paid the wages of the gardener, not being able

to pay my rent.

With respect to Madam le Vasseur, I told her we must part; her daughter

attempted to make me renounce my resolution, but I was inflexible.

I sent her off, to Paris in a carriage of the messenger with all the

furniture and effects she and her daughter had in common. I gave

her some money, and engaged to pay her lodging with her children,

or elsewhere to provide for her subsistence as much as it should be

possible for me to do it, and never to let her want bread as long as I

should have it myself.

Finally the day after my arrival at Mont Louis, I wrote to Madam

d'Epinay the following letter:

MONTMORENCY, 17th December 1757.

"Nothing, madam, is so natural and necessary as to leave your house the

moment you no longer approve of my remaining there. Upon you refusing

your consent to my passing the rest of the winter at the Hermitage I

quitted it on the fifteenth of December. My destiny was to enter it in

spite of myself and to leave it the same. I thank you for the residence

you prevailed upon me to make there, and I would thank you still more

had I paid for it less dear. You are right in believing me unhappy;

nobody upon earth knows better than yourself to what a degree I must be

so. If being deceived in the choice of our friends be a misfortune, it

is another not less cruel to recover from so pleasing an error."

Such is the faithful narrative of my residence at the Hermitage, and

of the reasons which obliged me to leave it. I could not break off the

recital, it was necessary to continue it with the greatest exactness;

this epoch of my life having had upon the rest of it an influence which

will extend to my latest remembrance.