Spite of the little estimation in which I held men of letters, generally speaking, you must not take it for granted that I entertained an equal indifference for all these gentlemen. I have already, I fear, tired your patience when dwelling upon my ardent admiration of M. de Voltaire; I have now to speak to you of that with which his illustrious rival, Jean Jacques Rousseau, inspired me—the man who, after a life so filled with constant trouble and misfortunes, died a few years since in so deplorable a manner. At the period of which I am now speaking this man, who had filled Europe with his fame, was living at Paris, in a state bordering upon indigence. I must here mention, that it was owing to my solicitation that he had been permitted to return from his exile, I having successfully interceded for him with the chancellor and the attorney-general. M. Seguier made no difficulty to my request, because he looked upon Jean Jacques Rousseau as the greatest enemy to a set of men whom he mortally hated—the philosophers. Neither did M. de Maupeou, from the moment he effected the overthrow of the parliament, see any objection to bestowing his protection upon a man whom the parliaments had exiled. In this manner, therefore, without his being aware of it, Rousseau owed to me the permission to re-enter Paris. Spite of the mortifying terms in which this celebrated writer had spoken of the king’s mistresses, I had a lively curiosity to know him; all that his enemies repeated of his uncouthness, and even of his malicious nature, far from weakening the powerful interest with which he inspired me, rather augmented it, by strengthening the idea I had previously formed of his having been greatly calumniated. The generous vengeance which he had recently taken for the injuries he had received from Voltaire particularly charmed me.* I thought only how I could effect my design of seeing him by one means or another, and in this resolution I was confirmed by an accident which befell me one day.

It was the commencement of April, 1771, I was reading for the fourth time, the “Nouvelle Heloise,” and for the tenth, or, probably, twelfth, the account of the party on the lake, when the marÉchale de Mirepoix entered the room. I laid my open volume on the mantel-piece, and the marÉchale, glancing her eye upon the book I had just put down, smilingly begged my pardon for disturbing my grave studies, and taking it in her hand, exclaimed,

“Ah! I see you have been perusing ‘La Nouvelle Heloise’; I have just been having more than an hour’s conversation respecting its author.”

“What were you saying of him?” asked I.

“Why, my dear, I happened to be at the house of madame de Luxembourg, where I met with the comtesse de Boufflers.”

“Yes, I remember,” said I, “the former of these ladies was the particular friend of Jean Jacques Rousseau.”

“And the second also,” answered she; “and I can promise you, that neither the one or the other spoke too well of him.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed I, with a warmth I could not repress.

“The duchess,” resumed madame de Mirepoix, “says he is an ill-bred and ungrateful man, and the countess insists upon it he is a downright pedant.”

“Shameful, indeed,” cried I; “but can you, my dear friend, account for the ill-nature with which these ladies speak of poor Rousseau?”

“Oh! Yes,” replied the marÉchale, “their motives are easily explained, and I will tell you a little secret, for the truth of which I can vouch. Madame de Luxembourg had at one time conceived the most lively passion for Jean Jacques.”

“Indeed!” cried I; “and he—”

“Did not return it. As for madame de Bouffiers, the case was exactly reversed; and Rousseau has excited her resentment by daring long to nurse a hopeless flame, of which she was the object: this presumption on the part of the poet our dignified countess could never pardon. However, I entreat of you not to repeat this; remember, I tell you in strictest secrecy.”

“Oh, be assured of my discretion,” said I; “I promise you not to publish your secret” (which, by the way, I was very certain was not communicated for the first time when told to me).

This confidence on the part of the marÉchale had, in some unaccountable manner, only increased the ardent desire I felt to see the author of the “Nouvelle Heloise”; and I observed to madame de Mirepoix, that I had a great curiosity to be introduced to Rousseau.

“I fear,” said she, “you will never be able to persuade him to visit at the chÂteau.”

“How then can I accomplish my desire of seeing this celebrated man?”

“By one simple method; if he will not come to you, you must go to him. I would willingly accompany you, but he knows me, and my presence would spoil all. The best thing you can do is to dress yourself quite plainly, as a lady from the country, taking with you one of your female attendants. You may take as a pretext for your visit some music you would wish to have copied. Be sure to treat M. de Rousseau as a mere copyist, and appear never to have heard of his superior merit: do this, and you will receive the best possible reception.”

I greatly approved of the marÉchale ‘s advice, which I assured her I would delay no longer than till the following day to put into practice; and, after some further conversation upon J. J. Rousseau, we parted.

Early the next day I set out for Paris accompanied by Henriette; there, in pursuance of the suggestion of madame de Mirepoix, I dressed myself as a person recently arrived from the country, and Henriette, who was to accompany me, disguised herself as a villager. I assure you, our personal attractions lost nothing by the change of our attire. From the rue de la Jussienne to the rue Platriere is only a few steps; nevertheless, in the fear of being recognised, I took a hired carriage. Having reached our place of destination, we entered, by a shabby door, the habitation of Jean Jacques Rousseau: his apartments were on the fifth floor. I can scarcely describe to you, my friend, the emotions I experienced as I drew nearer and nearer to the author of “Heloise.” At each flight of stairs I was compelled to pause to collect my ideas, and my poor heart beat as though I had been keeping an assignation. At length, however, we reached the fifth story; thereafter having rested a few minutes to recover myself, I was about to knock at a door which was opposite to me, when, as I approached, I heard a sweet but tremulous voice singing a melancholy air, which I have never since heard anywhere; the same voice repeated the romance to which I was listening several times. When it had entirely ceased I profited by the silence to tap with my knuckles against the door, but so feeble was the signal, that even Henriette, who was close behind me, could not hear it. She begged I would permit her to ring a bell which hung near us; and, having done so, a step was heard approaching the door, and, in a minute or two, it was opened by a man of about sixty years of age, who, seeing two females, took off his cap with a sort of clumsy gallantry, at which I affected to be much flattered.

“Pray, sir,” said I, endeavouring to repress my emotion, “does a person named Rousseau, a copier of music, live here?”

“Yes, madam; I am he. What is your pleasure?”

“I have been told, sir, that you are particularly skilful in copying music cheaply; I should be glad if you would undertake to copy these airs I have brought with me.”

“Have the goodness to walk in, madam.”

We crossed a small obscure closet, which served as a species of antechamber, and entered the sitting-room of M. de Rousseau, who seated me in an arm-chair, and motioning to Henriette to sit down, once more inquired my wishes respecting the music.

“Sir,” said I, “as I live in the country, and but very rarely visit Paris, I should be obliged to you to get it done as early as possible.”

“Willingly, madam; I have not much upon my hands just now.”

I then gave to Jean Jacques Rousseau the roll of music I had brought. He begged I would continue seated, requested permission to keep on his cap, and went to a little table to examine the music I had brought.

Upon my first entrance I had perceived a close and confined smell in these miserable apartments, but, by degrees, I became accustomed to it, and began to examine the chamber in which I sat with as strict a scrutiny as though I had intended making an inventory of its contents. Three old elbow-chairs, some rickety stools, a writing-table, on which were two or three volumes of music, some dried plants laid on white-brown paper; beside the table stood an old spinet, and, close to the latter article of furniture, sat a fat and well-looking cat. Over the chimney hung an old silver watch; the walls of the room were adorned with about half a dozen views of Switzerland and some inferior engravings, two only, which occupied the most honourable situations, struck me; one represented Frederick II, and under the picture were written some lines (which I cannot now recollect) by Rousseau himself; the other engraving, which hung opposite, was the likeness of a very tall, thin, old man, whose dress was nearly concealed by the dirt which had been allowed to accumulate upon it; I could only distinguish that it was ornamented with a broad riband. When I had sufficiently surveyed this chamber, the simplicity of which, so closely bordering on want and misery, pained me to the heart, I directed my attention to the extraordinary man who was the occasion of my visit. He was of middle height, slightly bent by age, with a large and expansive chest; his features were common in their cast, but possessed of the most perfect regularity. His eyes, which he from time to time raised from the music he was considering, were round and sparkling but small, and the heavy brows which hung over them, conveyed an idea of gloom and severity; but his mouth, which was certainly the most beautiful and fascinating in its expression I ever saw, soon removed this unfavourable impression. Altogether there belonged to his countenance a smile of mixed sweetness and sadness, which bestowed on it an indescribable charm.

To complete my description, I must not forget to add his dress, which consisted of a dirty cotton cap, to which were fixed strings of a riband that had once been scarlet; a pelisse with arm-holes, a flannel waistcoat, snuff-coloured breeches, gray stockings, and shoes slipped down at the heel, after the fashion of slippers. Such was the portrait, and such the abode of the man who believed himself to be one of the potentates of the earth and who, in fact, had once owned his little court and train of courtiers; for, in the century in which he lived, talent had become as arbitrary as sovereign power—thanks to the stupidity of some of our grandees and the caprice of Frederick of Prussia.

Meanwhile my host, undisturbed by my reflections, had quietly gone over his packet of music. He found amongst it an air from “Le Devin du Village,” which I had purposely placed there; he half turned towards me and looking steadfastly at me, as if he would force the truth from my lips.

“Madam,” said he, “do you know the author of this little composition?”

“Yes,” replied I, with an air of as great simplicity as I could assume, “it is written by a person of the same name as yourself, who writes books and composes operas. Is he any relation to you?”

My answer and question disarmed the suspicions of Jean Jacques, who was about to reply, but stopped himself, as if afraid of uttering a falsehood, and contented himself with smiling and casting down his eyes. Taking courage from his silence, I ventured to add,—“The M. de Rousseau who composed this pretty air has written much beautiful music and many very clever works. Should I ever know the happiness of becoming a mother I shall owe to him the proper care and education of my child.” Rousseau made no reply, but he turned his eyes towards me, and at this moment the expression of his countenance was perfectly celestial, and I could readily imagine how easily he might have inspired a warmer sentiment than that of admiration.

Whilst we were conversing in this manner, a female, between the age of forty and fifty, entered the room. She saluted me with great affectation of politeness, and then, without speaking to Rousseau, went and seated herself familiarly upon a chair on the other side of the table: this was ThÉrÈse, a sort of factotum, who served the master of these apartments both as servant and mistress. I could not help regarding this woman with a feeling of disgust; she had a horrible cough, which she told us was more than usually troublesome on that day. I had heard of her avarice; therefore to prevent the appearance of having called upon an unprofitable errand, I inquired of Jean Jacques Rousseau how much the music would cost.

“Six sous a page, madam,” replied he, “is the usual price.”

“Shall I, sir,” asked I, “leave you any cash in hand for the purchase of what paper you will require?”

“No, I thank you, madam,” replied Rousseau, smiling; “thank God! I am not yet so far reduced that I cannot purchase it for you. I have a trifling annuity—”

“And you would be a much richer man,” screamed ThÉrÈse, “if you would insist upon those people at the opera paying you what they owe you.” These words were accompanied with a shrug of the shoulders, intended to convey a vast idea of her own opinion.

Rousseau made no reply; indeed he appeared to me like a frightened child in the presence of its nurse; and I could quickly see, that from the moment of her entering the room he had become restless and dejected, he fidgeted on his seat, and seemed like a person in excessive pain. At length he rose, and requesting my pardon for absenting himself, he added, “My wife will have the honour to entertain you whilst I am away.” With these words he opened a small glass-door, and disappeared in the neighbouring room.

When we were alone with ThÉrÈse, she lost no time in opening the conversation.

“Madam,” cried she, “I trust you will have the goodness to excuse M. Rousseau; he is very unwell; it is really extremely vexatious.”

I replied that M. Rousseau had made his own excuses. Just then ThÉrÈse, wishing to give herself the appearance of great utility, cried out,

“Am I wanted there, M. Rousseau?”

“No, no, no,” replied Jean Jacques, in a faint voice, which died away as if at a distance.

He soon after re-entered the room.

“Madam,” said he, “have the kindness to place your music in other hands to copy; I am truly concerned that I cannot execute your wishes, but I feel too ill to set about it directly.”

I replied, that I was in no hurry; that I should be in Paris some time yet, and that he might copy it at his leisure. It was then settled that it should be ready within a week from that time; upon which I rose, and ceremoniously saluting ThÉrÈse, was conducted to the door by M. Rousseau, whose politeness led him to escort me thither, holding his cap in his hand. I retired, filled with admiration, respect, and pity.

When next I saw the duc d’Aiguillon, I could not refrain from relating to him all that had happened. My recital inspired him with the most lively curiosity to see Rousseau, whom he had never met in society. It was then agreed, that when I went to fetch my music he should accompany me, disguised in a similar manner to myself, and that I should pass him off as my uncle. At the end of the eight days I repaired early as before to Paris; the duke was not long in joining me there. He was so inimitably well disguised, that no person would ever have detected the most elegant nobleman of the court of France beneath the garb of a plain country squire. We set out laughing like simpletons at the easy air with which he wore his new costume; nevertheless our gaiety disappeared as we reached the habitation of J. J. Rousseau. Spite of ourselves we were compelled to honour and respect the man of talent and genius, who preferred independence of ideas to riches, and before whom rank and power were compelled to lay aside their unmeaning trappings ere they could reach his presence. When we reached the fifth landing-place I rang, and this time the door was opened by ThÉrÈse, who told us M Rousseau was out.

“But, madam,” answered I, “I am here by the direction of your husband to fetch away the music he has been engaged in copying for me.”

“Ah, madam,” exclaimed she, “is it you? I did not recollect you again; pray walk in. M. Rousseau will be sure to be at home for you.”

“So, then,” thought I, “even genius has its visiting lists.” We entered; Jean Jacques formally saluted us, and invited us to be seated. He then gave me my music; I inquired what it came to; he consulted a little memorandum which lay upon the table, and replied, “So many pages, so much paper, eighteen livres twelve sous;” which, of course, I instantly paid. The duc d’Aiguillon, whom I styled my uncle, was endeavoring to lead Rousseau into conversation, when the outer bell rang. ThÉrÈse went to open the door, and a gentleman entered, of mature age, although still preserving his good looks. The duke regarded him in silence and immediately made signs for me to hasten our departure; I obeyed, and took leave of Rousseau, with many thanks his punctuality. He accompanied us as before to door, and there I quitted him never to see him more. As we were descending the staircase, M. d’Aiguillon told me that the person who had so hastened our departure was Duclas, and that his hurry to quit Rousseau arose from his dread of being recognised by him. Although M. Duclas was a very excellent man, I must own that I owed no small grudge for a visit which had thus abridged ours.

In the evening the duc d’Aiguillon and myself related to the king our morning’s pilgrimage. I likewise recounted my former visit, which I had concealed until now. Louis XV seemed greatly interested with the recital of it; he asked me a thousand questions, and would fain hear the most trifling particulars.

“I shall never forget,” said Louis XV, “the amazing success obtained by his ‘Devin du Village.’ There certainly were some beautiful airs”, and the king began to hum over the song of

“Yes, madam,” continued his majesty, “I promise you, that had Rousseau after his success chosen to step forward as a candidate for public favour, he would soon have overthrown Voltaire.”

“Pardon me,” replied I; “but I cannot believe that would have been possible under any circumstances.”

“And why not?” asked the king; “he was a man of great talent.”

“Doubtless, sire, but not of the kind to compete with Voltaire.”

The king then changed the conversation to ThÉrÈse, inquiring whether she possessed any attractions?

“None whatever, sire,” replied the duke; “at least none that we could perceive.”

“In that case,” rejoined his majesty, “she must have charmed her master by some of those unseen perfections which take the deepest hold of the heart; besides I know not why we should think it strange that others see with different eyes to ourselves.”

I made no secret with the comte Jean of my visit, and he likewise expressed his desire to know a man so justly celebrated, and, in its proper place, you, may hear how he managed to effect this, and what befell him in consequence—but, to finish for the present with Rousseau, for I will not promise that I shall not again indulge in speaking of him. I will just say, that after the lapse of two or three days from the time of my last visit, the idea occurred to me of sending him a thousand crowns in an Indian casket. This I sent by a servant out of livery, whom I strictly enjoined not to name me but to say simply that he came from a lady. He brought back the casket to me unopened, and the following billet from Rousseau:—

“MADAM,—I send back the present you would force upon my acceptance in so concealed a manner; if it be offered as a testimony of your esteem I may possibly accept it, when you permit me to know the hand from which it comes. Be assured, madam, that there is much truth in the assertion of its being more easy to give than to receive.

“I have the honour to remain, madam, yours, etc., etc.,

“J. J. ROUSSEAU.”

This was rather an uncouth manner of refusing; nevertheless, when at this distance of time I review the transaction, I cannot help admitting that I well deserved it. Perhaps when it first occurred I might have felt piqued, but since I have quitted the court I have again read over the works of J. J. Rousseau, and I now speak of him, as you see, without one particle of resentment.

I must now speak to you of a new acquaintance I made about this Period—that of the two duchesses d’Aiguillon. From my first entrance into the chÂteau until the close of 1770, madame d’Aiguillon, the daughter-in-law, observed a sort of armed neutrality towards me; true, she never visited me, but she always met me with apparent satisfaction at the houses of others; thus she managed to steer clear of one dangerous extreme or the other till the downfall of the des Choiseuls; when the duc d’Aiguillon having been nominated to the ministry, she perceived that she could not, without great ingratitude, omit calling to offer me her acknowledgments, and accordingly she came. On my side, I left no means untried of rendering myself agreeable to her; and so well did I succeed, that from that moment her valuable friendship was bestowed on me with a sincerity which even my unfortunate reverses have been unable to shake; and we are to this day the same firm and true friends we were in the zenith of my power. Not that I would seek to justify the injury she sought to do our queen, but I may and do congratulate myself, that the same warmth which pervades her hatreds likewise influences her friendships.

I cannot equally boast of the treatment I received from the duchess dowager d’Aiguillon, who, as well as her daughter-in-law, came to see me upon the promotion of her son. She overloaded me with caresses, and even exceeded her daughter-in-law in protestations of devotion and gratitude. You should have heard her extol my beauty, wit, and sweetness of disposition; she, in fact, so overwhelmed me with her surfeiting praises, that at last I became convinced that, of the thousand flattering things she continually addressed to me, not one was her candid opinion; and I was right, for I soon learned, that in her circle of intimates at the houses of the Beauffremons, the Brionnes, and above all, the marquise du Deffant, she justified her acquaintance with me, by saying it was a sacrifice made to the interests of her son, and amused these ladies by censuring my every word and look. The dowager’s double-dealing greatly annoyed me; nevertheless, not wishing to vex her son, or her daughter-in-law, I affected to be ignorant of her dishonourable conduct. However, I could not long repress my indignation, and one day that she was praising me most extravagantly, I exclaimed, “Ah, madam, how kind it would be of you to reserve one of these pretty speeches to repeat at madame du Deffant’s.” This blow, so strong yet just, rather surprised her; but, quickly rallying her courage, she endeavoured to persuade me that she always spoke of me in the same terms. “It may be so,” replied I; “but I fear that you say so many flattering things to me, that you have not one left when out of my sight.”

The marÉchale de Mirepoix used to say, that a caress from madame d’Aiguillon was not less to be dreaded than the bite of M. d’Ayen. Yet the duchess dowager has obtained a first-rate reputation for goodness; every one styled her the good duchesse d’Aiguillon. And why, do you suppose? Because she was one of those fat, fresh, portly-looking dames of whom you would have said, her very face and figure bespoke the contented goodness of her disposition; for who would ever suspect malice could lurk in so much embonpoint? I think I have already told you that this lady expired whilst bathing, of an attack of apoplexy, in the month of June, 1772. Her son shed many tears at her loss, whilst I experienced but a very moderate share of grief.

Adieu, my friend; if you are not already terrified at the multiplicity of the letters which compose my journal, I have yet much to say; and I flatter myself the continuance of my adventures will be found no less interesting than those you have perused.