Indeed the style is a faithful reflection of the man--perhaps the most faithful we possess. Known only through his acts, we know him only as he was spoilt by his unhappy training. It is in his writings that we see the real man, as he was by himself and as he strove to be with others. In the world he was stiff, shy, rudely straightforward, despising chicanery and abhorring clamour. Alone in his library he was another being, free, natural, powerful, and great. From the windows he could look out upon a world unthinking, heedless, the prey of knaves and the sport of fools, and needing to be guided by a philosopher and an honest man. His belief that he was wise and strong enough to give such guidance may be called an illusion, if any one thinks it worth while. Within those walls the illusion, if illusion it was, was a very natural one; and natural or not, we have no right to complain, for it has bequeathed to us one of the most interesting of journals and revealed to us one of the most interesting of men. D'Argenson's life during these last ten years is seen upon an engaging background, the château and domain of Segrez, about thirty miles from Paris. It was a very charming place, which its master loved, and was fond of describing both with pen and pencil.[405] He used to liken it to the Elysian Fields,[406] and if his own affectionate sketches of it are to be trusted, the hyperbole may readily be pardoned. There he passed the years of his retirement, organising his correspondence, inditing his Journal, entertaining his friends, and protecting the peasantry against the revenue officers.[407] Sometimes too in moments of blissful idleness, he would prop himself up in that portable reading cabinet which M. Aubertin has made so famous,[408] and laugh and weep through a translation of "Tom Jones,"[409] a new book by that ingenious writer, Mr. Henry Fielding. His life was broken by an occasional visit to the Court or to his family estates in Touraine; and he was constantly in and out of Paris. Often might he be seen descending from the mud-bespattered coach, reading with affright and horror some placards which the police had not yet torn down, condoling with one of his learned friends in the agitated court of the Palais de Justice, denouncing the Jesuits in the company of d'Alembert, or hurrying away to preside at a meeting of the Academy of Letters.[410] But his heart was always thirty miles away. We can picture him, after an exciting month at Paris, arriving at Segrez, handing off his cloak, flinging himself into the arms of some cherished chair, and dreaming of a week of peace and solitude. "Here I am again in the country for six days. I shall have less news of the world and the Court, but far better news of myself. How delightful it is to be at rest, in the company of oneself and one's books!