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. * 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 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.”