The Breton nobility had, at its own instance, assembled at Rennes to protest against the establishment of the Plenary Court. I went to this diet: it was the first political meeting I ever attended. I was bewildered and amused by the cries I heard. The members climbed on the tables and chairs; they gesticulated, and all spoke at one time. The Marquis de Trémargat[288], who had a wooden leg, shouted in stentorian tones: "Let us all go to the Commandant, M. de Thiard[289]; we will say to him, 'The nobles of Brittany are at your door; they ask to speak to you; the King himself would not deny them!'" At this outburst of eloquence, the cheers shook the rafters. He commenced again: "The King himself would not deny them!" The shouts and stamping redoubled. We went to M. le Comte de Thiard, a man of the Court, an erotic poet, a gentle and frivolous spirit, mortally bored by our uproar; he looked upon us as so many _hou-hous_, wild-boars, wild beasts; he was burning to be gone from our Armorica, and had not the slightest desire to deny us the entrance to his house. Our spokesman told him what he wanted, after which we went back and drew up the following declaration: "We declare infamous those who are capable of accepting any places, whether in the new administration of justice, or in the administration of the States, which shall not be approved by the constitutional laws of Brittany." Twelve gentlemen were chosen to carry this document to the King: upon their arrival in Paris, they were locked up in the Bastille, whence they soon emerged in the quality of heroes[290]; they were received with laurel-branches on their return. We wore coats with large buttons of mother-of-pearl bedecked with ermine, round which buttons was inscribed in Latin the motto, "Death before dishonor." We triumphed over the Court, over which all the world was triumphing, and we fell with it into the same abyss. * It was at this period that my brother, continuing to prosecute his plans, resolved to have me admitted to the Order of Malta. In order to effect this, it was necessary that I should receive the tonsure: this could be given me by M. Cortois de Pressigny[291], Bishop of Saint-Malo. I therefore went to my native city, where my good mother was living: she no longer had her children with her; she spent her days at church, her evenings knitting. Her absent-mindedness was incredible: I met her one day in the street, carrying one of her slippers under her arm by way of a prayer-book. From time to time some old friends would find their way to her retreat and talk of the good times that were past. When she and I were alone, she would improvise beautiful stories for me in verse. In one of these stories the devil carried off a chimney with an evil-doer in it, and the poet exclaimed: Le diable en l'avenue Chemina tant et tant, Qu'on en perdit la vue En moins d'une heur' de temps[292]. "I cannot help thinking," said I, "that the devil does not go very fast."