often the last preliminary before surrender. Diderot fell ill. The two
women could not bear to think of him lying sick in a room no better than
a dog-kennel, without broths and tisanes, lonely and sorrowful. They
hastened to nurse him, and when he got well, what he thought the great
object of his life was reached. He and his adored were married
(1743).[16] As has been said, "Choice in marriage is a great match of
cajolery between purpose and invisible hazard: deep criticism of a game
of pure chance is time wasted." In Diderot's case destiny was hostile.

His wife was over thirty. She was dutiful, sage, and pious. She had
plenty of that devotion which in small things women so seldom lack.
While her husband went to dine out, she remained at home to dine and
sup on dry bread, and was pleased to think that the next day she would
double the little ordinary for him. Coffee was too dear to be a
household luxury, so every day she handed him a few halfpence to have
his cup, and to watch the chess-players at the Cafe de la Regence. When
after a year or two she went to make her peace with her father-in-law at
Langres, she wound her way round the old man's heart by her affectionate
caresses, her respect, her ready industry in the household, her piety,
her simplicity. It is, however, unfortunately possible for even the best
women to manifest their goodness, their prudence, their devotion, in
forms that exasperate. Perhaps it was so here. Diderot at fifty was an
orderly and steadfast person, but at thirty the blood of vagabondage was
still hot within him. He needed in his companion a robust patience, to
match his own too robust activity. One may suppose that if Mirabeau had
married Hannah More, the union would have turned out ill, and Diderot's
marriage was unluckily of such a type. His wife's narrow pieties and
homely solicitudes fretted him. He had not learned to count the cost of
deranging the fragile sympathy of the hearth. While his wife was away on
her visit to his family, he formed a connection with a woman (Madame
Puisieux) who seems to have been as bad and selfish as his wife was the
opposite. She was the authoress of some literary pieces, which the world
willingly and speedily let die; but even very moderate pretensions to
_bel-esprit_ may have seemed wonderfully refreshing to a man wearied to
death by the illiterate stupidity of his daily companion.[17] This
lasted some three or four years down to 1749. As we shall see, he