"Oh! I am under the roof of Jean Jacques Rousseau!"
The old gentleman smiled with more happiness at this unstudied ovation than at the thousand triumphs of his glorious life.
"Yes, my friend, you are in Rousseau's house."
"Pray forgive me for the nonsense I have talked," said the hero-worshiper, clasping his hands and about to fall on his knees.
"Did it require a prince's call for you to recognize the persecuted philosopher of Geneva? poor child—but lucky one—who is ignorant of persecution."
"Oh, I am happy to see you, to know you, to dwell by you."
"Yes, yes, that is all very well; but we must earn our living. When you shall have copied this piece—for you have practiced enough to make a start—you will have earned your keep to-day. I charge nothing for the lodging—only do not sit up late and burn up the candles, for Therese will scold. What was left over from supper last night will be our breakfast; but this will be the last meal we take together, unless I invite you. In the street is a cheap dining-house for artisans, where you will fare nicely. I recommend it. In the mean time, let us breakfast."
Gilbert followed without a word, for he was conquered, for the first time; but then this was a man superior to others.
After the first mouthfuls he left table; the shock had spoilt his appetite. At eight in the evening he had copied a piece of music, not artistically but legibly, and Rousseau paid him the six cents.