"Whew!" said Sartines, "dash me if I did not suspect this. You are unlucky, for that is the dwelling of Rousseau, of Geneva."
"The scribbler? What does that matter?"
"It matters that Rousseau is a man to be dreaded."
"Pooh! it is not likely my little man will be harbored by a celebrity."
"Why not, as you nicknamed him a philosopher? Birds of a feather—you know——"
"Suppose it is so. Why not put this Rousseau in the Bastille if he is in our way?"
"Well, he would be more in our way there than here. You see the mob likes to throw stones at him, but they would pelt us if he was no longer their target, and they want him for themselves. But let us see into this. Sit back in the carriage."
He referred to a notebook.
"I have it. If your young blade is with Rousseau, when would he have met him?"