“Madam,” cried she, “I trust you will have the goodness to excuse M. Rousseau; he is very unwell; it is really extremely vexatious.” I replied that M. Rousseau had made his own excuses. Just then Thérèse, wishing to give herself the appearance of great utility, cried out, “Am I wanted there, M. Rousseau?” “No, no, no,” replied Jean Jacques, in a faint voice, which died away as if at a distance. He soon after re-entered the room. “Madam,” said he, “have the kindness to place your music in other hands to copy; I am truly concerned that I cannot execute your wishes, but I feel too ill to set about it directly.” I replied, that I was in no hurry; that I should be in Paris some time yet, and that he might copy it at his leisure. It was then settled that it should be ready within a week from that time; upon which I rose, and ceremoniously saluting Thérèse, was conducted to the door by M. Rousseau, whose politeness led him to escort me thither, holding his cap in his hand. I retired, filled with admiration, respect, and pity. When next I saw the duc d’Aiguillon, I could not refrain from relating to him all that had happened. My recital inspired him with the most lively curiosity to see Rousseau, whom he had never met in society. It was then agreed, that when I went to fetch my music he should accompany me, disguised in a similar manner to myself, and that I should pass him off as my uncle. At the end of the eight days I repaired early as before to Paris; the duke was not long in joining me there. He was so inimitably well disguised, that no person would ever have detected the most elegant nobleman of the court of France beneath the garb of a plain country squire. We set out laughing like simpletons at the easy air with which he wore his new costume; nevertheless our gaiety disappeared as we reached the habitation of J. J. Rousseau. Spite of ourselves we were compelled to honour and respect the man of talent and genius, who preferred independence of ideas to riches, and before whom rank and power were compelled to lay aside their unmeaning trappings ere they could reach his presence. When we reached the fifth landing-place I rang, and this time the door was opened by Thérèse, who told us M Rousseau was out. “But, madam,” answered I, “I am here by the direction of your husband to fetch away the music he has been engaged in copying for me.” “Ah, madam,” exclaimed she, “is it you? I did not recollect you again; pray walk in. M. Rousseau will be sure to be at home for you.”