the
castle, he used to return home gleefully to sup with a mason who was
his neighbour and his friend.[10] On the whole, however, and so far as
we know, Rousseau conducted himself not unworthily with these high
people. His letters to them are for the most part marked by
self-respect and a moderate graciousness, though now and again he
makes rather too much case of the difference of rank, and asserts his
independence with something too much of protestation.[11] Their
relations with him are a curious sign of the interest which the
members of the great world took in the men who were quietly preparing
the destruction both of them and their world. The Marechale de
Luxembourg places this squalid dweller in a hovel on her estate in the
place of honour at her table, and embraces his Theresa. The Prince of
Conti pays visits of courtesy and sends game to a man whom he employs
at a few sous an hour to copy manuscript for him. The Countess of
Boufflers, in sending him the money, insists that he is to count her
his warmest friend.[12] When his dog dies, the countess writes to
sympathise with his chagrin, and the prince begs to be allowed to
replace it.[13] And when persecution and trouble and infinite
confusion came upon him, they all stood as fast by him as their own
comfort would allow. Do we not feel that there must have been in the
unhappy man, besides all the recorded pettinesses and perversities
which revolt us in him, a vein of something which touched men, and
made women devoted to him, until he splenetically drove both men and
women away from him? With Madame d'Epinay and Madame d'Houdetot, as
with the dearer and humbler patroness of his youth, we have now parted
company. But they are instantly succeeded by new devotees. And the
lovers of Rousseau, in all degrees, were not silly women led captive
by idle fancy. Madame de Boufflers was one of the most distinguished
spirits of her time. Her friendship for him was such, that his
sensuous vanity made Rousseau against all reason or probability
confound it with a warmer form of emotion, and he plumes himself in a
manner most displeasing on the victory which he won over his own
feelings on the occasion.[14] As a matter of fact he had no feelings
to conquer, any more than the supposed object of them ever bore him
any ill-will for his indifference, as in his mania of suspicion he
afterwards believed.

There was a calm about the too few years he passed at Montmorency,
which leaves u