eatly 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.

* Jean Jacques Rousseau in his journey through Lyons in June
1770 subscribed for the statue of Voltaire.--author

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 marechale de Mirepoix
entered the room. I laid my open volume on the mantel-piece, and the
marechale, 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 marechale, "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