lamors of a furious demagogue.

The esteem I had for the Abbe Malby, and my great opinion of his
understanding, did not permit me to believe this extravagant letter was
written by him. I acted in this business with my usual candor. I sent
him a copy of the letter, informing him he was said to be the author of
it. He returned me no answer. This silence astonished me: but what was
my surprise when by a letter I received from Madam de Chenonceaux,
I learned the Abbe was really the author of that which was attributed to
him, and found himself greatly embarrassed by mine. For even supposing
for a moment that what he stated was true, how could he justify so public
an attack, wantonly made, without obligation or necessity, for the sole
purpose of overwhelming in the midst of his greatest misfortunes, a man
to whom he had shown himself a well-wisher, and who had not done anything
that could excite his enmity? In a short time afterwards the 'Dialogues
of Phocion', in which I perceived nothing but a compilation, without
shame or restraint, from my writings, made their appearance.

In reading this book I perceived the author had not the least regard for
me, and that in future I must number him among my most bitter enemies.
I do not believe he has ever pardoned me for the Social Contract, far
superior to his abilities, or the Perpetual Peace; and I am, besides, of
opinion that the desire he expressed that I should make an extract from
the Abby de St. Pierre, proceeded from a supposition in him that I should
not acquit myself of it so well.

The further I advance in my narrative, the less order I feel myself
capable of observing. The agitation of the rest of my life has deranged
in my ideas the succession of events. These are too numerous, confused,
and disagreeable to be recited in due order. The only strong impression
they have left upon my mind is that of the horrid mystery by which the
cause of them is concealed, and of the deplorable state to which they
have reduced me. My narrative will in future be irregular, and according
to the events which, without order, may occur to my recollection.
I remember about the time to which I refer, full of the idea of my
confessions, I very imprudently spoke of them to everybody, never
imagining it could be the wish or interest, much less within the power
of any person whatsoever, to throw an obstacle in the way of this
undertaking, and had I suspected it, even this would not have r