“The duchess,” resumed madame de Mirepoix, “says he is an ill-bred and ungrateful man, and the countess insists upon it he is a downright pedant.”
“Shameful, indeed,” cried I; “but can you, my dear friend, account for the ill-nature with which these ladies speak of poor Rousseau?”
“Oh! Yes,” replied the maréchale, “their motives are easily explained, and I will tell you a little secret, for the truth of which I can vouch. Madame de Luxembourg had at one time conceived the most lively passion for Jean Jacques.”
“Indeed!” cried I; “and he—”
“Did not return it. As for madame de Bouffiers, the case was exactly reversed; and Rousseau has excited her resentment by daring long to nurse a hopeless flame, of which she was the object: this presumption on the part of the poet our dignified countess could never pardon. However, I entreat of you not to repeat this; remember, I tell you in strictest secrecy.”
“Oh, be assured of my discretion,” said I; “I promise you not to publish your secret” (which, by the way, I was very certain was not communicated for the first time when told to me).
This confidence on the part of the maréchale had, in some unaccountable manner, only increased the ardent desire I felt to see the author of the “Nouvelle Heloise”; and I observed to madame de Mirepoix, that I had a great curiosity to be introduced to Rousseau.
“I fear,” said she, “you will never be able to persuade him to visit at the château.”
“How then can I accomplish my desire of seeing this celebrated man?”
“By one simple method; if he will not come to you, you must go to him. I would willingly accompany you, but he knows me, and my presence would spoil all. The best thing you can do is to dress yourself quite plainly, as a lady from the country, taking with you one of your female attendants. You may take as a pretext for your visit some music you would wish to have copied. Be sure to treat M. de Rousseau as a mere copyist, and appear never to have heard of his superior merit: do this, and you will receive the best possible reception.”