"The writer is Jean Jacques Rousseau. These are stray pages out of his 'Confessions.'"
"So this unknown, poor, obscure youth, almost begging his way afoot on the highroads, was the man who was to write 'Emile' and the 'Social Contract?'"
"Yes—or, rather no!" said the other with unspeakable sadness. "This author is the man disenchanted with life, glory, society and almost with heaven; but the other Rousseau, Lady Warrens', was the youth entering life by the same door as Aurora comes into the world; youth with his joys and hopes. An abyss divides the two Rousseaus thirty years wide."
The old gentleman shook his head, let his arms sadly droop, and appeared to sink into deep musing.
"So," went on Gilbert, "it is possible for the meanly born like Rousseau to win the love of a mighty and beautiful lady? This is calculated to drive those mad who have lifted their eyes to those above their sphere."
"Are you in love and do you see some likeness between your case and Rousseau's?" asked the old gentleman.
Gilbert blushed without answering the question.
"But he won, because he was Rousseau," he observed. "Yet, were I to feel a spark of his flame of genius, I should aspire to the star, and seek to wear it even though——"
"You had to commit a crime?"
Jacques started and cut short the interview by saying: