by the death of his wife, which, as well as that of Madam Francueil,
happened whilst I was at Geneva. Diderot, when he communicated to me
these melancholy events, spoke of the deep affliction of the husband.
His grief affected my heart. I myself was grieved for the loss of that
excellent woman, and wrote to M. d'Holbach a letter of condolence.
I forgot all the wrongs he had done me, and at my return from Geneva,
and after he had made the tour of France with Grimm and other friends
to alleviate his affliction, I went to see him, and continued my visits
until my departure for the Hermitage. As soon as it was known in his
circle that Madam D'Epinay was preparing me a habitation there,
innumerable sarcasms, founded upon the want I must feel of the flattery
and amusement of the city, and the supposition of my not being able to
support the solitude for a fortnight, were uttered against me. Feeling
within myself how I stood affected, I left him and his friends to say
what they pleased, and pursued my intention. M. d'Holbach rendered me
some services--
[This is an instance of the treachery of my memory. A long time
after I had written what I have stated above, I learned, in
conversing with my wife, that it was not M. d'Holbach, but M. de
Chenonceaux, then one of the administrators of the Hotel Dieu, who
procured this place for her father. I had so totally forgotten the
circumstance, and the idea of M. d'Holbach's having done it was so
strong in my mind that I would have sworn it had been him.]
in finding a place for the old Le Vasseur, who was eighty years of age
and a burden to his wife, from which she begged me to relieve her.
He was put into a house of charity, where, almost as soon as he arrived
there, age and the grief of finding himself removed from his family sent
him to the grave. His wife and all his children, except Theresa, did not
much regret his loss. But she, who loved him tenderly, has ever since
been inconsolable, and never forgiven herself for having suffered him,
at so advanced an age, to end his days in any other house than her own.
Much about the same time I received a visit I little expected, although
it was from a very old acquaintance. My friend Venture, accompanied by
another man, came upon me one morning by surprise. What a change did I
discover in his person! Instead of his former gracefulness, he appeared
sottish and vulgar, which made me extremely reserved with him. My eyes
deceived me, or either debauchery had stupefied his mind, or all his
first splendor was the effect of his youth, which was past. I saw him
almost with indifference, and we parted rather coolly. But when he was
gone, the remembrance of our former connection so strongly called to my
recollection that of my younger days, so charmingly, so prudently
dedicated to that angelic woman (Madam de Warrens) who was not much less
changed than himself; the little anecdotes of that happy time, the
romantic day of Toune passed with so much innocence and enjoyment between
those two charming girls, from whom a kiss of the hand was the only
favor, and which, notwithstanding its being so trifling, had left me such
lively, affecting and lasting regrets; and the ravishing delirium of a
young heart, which I had just felt in all its force, and of which I
thought the season forever past for me. The tender remembrance of these
delightful circumstances made me shed tears over my faded youth and its
transports for ever lost to me. Ah! how many tears should I have shed
over their tardy and fatal return had I foreseen the evils I had yet to
suffer from them.
Before I left Paris, I enjoyed during the winter which preceded my
retreat, a pleasure after my own heart, and of which I tasted in all its
purity. Palissot, academician of Nancy, known by a few dramatic
compositions, had just had one of them performed at Luneville before the
King of Poland. He perhaps thought to make his court by representing in
his piece a man who had dared to enter into a literary dispute with the
king. Stanislaus, who was generous, and did not like satire, was filled
with indignation at the author's daring to be personal in his presence.
The Comte de Tressan, by order of the prince, wrote to M. d'Alembert, as
well as to myself, to inform me that it was the intention of his majesty
to have Palissot expelled his academy. My answer was a strong
solicitation in favor of Palissot, begging M. de Tressan to intercede
with the king in his behalf. His pardon was granted, and M. de Tressan,
when he communicated to me the information in the name of the monarch,
added that the whole of what had passed should be inserted in the
register of the academy. I replied that this was less granting a pardon
than perpetuating a punishment. At length, after repeated solicitations,
I obtained a promise, that nothing relative to the affair should be
inserted in the register, and that no public trace should remain of it.
The promise was accompanied, as well on the part of the king as on that
of M. de Tressan, with assurance of esteem and respect, with which I was
extremely flattered; and I felt on this occasion that the esteem of men
who are themselves worthy of it, produced in the mind a sentiment
infinitely more noble and pleasing than that of vanity. I have
transcribed into my collection the letters of M. de Tressan, with my
answers to them: and the original of the former will be found amongst my
other papers.
I am perfectly aware that if ever these memoirs become public, I here
perpetuate the remembrance of a fact which I would wish to efface every
trace; but I transmit many others as much against my inclination.
The grand object of my undertaking, constantly before my eyes, and the
indispensable duty of fulfilling it to its utmost extent, will not permit
me to be turned aside by trifling considerations, which would lead me
from my purpose. In my strange and unparalleled situation, I owe too
much to truth to be further than this indebted to any person whatever.
They who wish to know me well must be acquainted with me in every point
of view, in every relative situation, both good and bad. My confessions
are necessarily connected with those of many other people: I write both
with the same frankness in everything that relates to that which has
befallen me; and am not obliged to spare any person more than myself,
although it is my wish to do it. I am determined always to be just and
true, to say of others all the good I can, never speaking of evil except
when it relates to my own conduct, and there is a necessity for my so
doing. Who, in the situation in which the world has placed me, has a
right to require more at my hands? My confessions are not intended to
appear during my lifetime, nor that of those they may disagreeably
affect. Were I master of my own destiny, and that of the book I am now
writing, it should never be made public until after my death and theirs.
But the efforts which the dread of truth obliges my powerful enemies to
make to destroy every trace of it, render it necessary for me to do
everything, which the strictest right, and the most severe justice, will
permit, to preserve what I have written. Were the remembrance of me to
be lost at my dissolution, rather than expose any person alive, I would
without a murmur suffer an unjust and momentary reproach. But since my
name is to live, it is my duty to endeavor to transmit with it to
posterity the remembrance of the unfortunate man by whom it was borne,
such as he really was, and not such as his unjust enemies incessantly
endeavored to describe him.