“And you would be a much richer man,” screamed Thérèse, “if you would insist upon those people at the opera paying you what they owe you.” These words were accompanied with a shrug of the shoulders, intended to convey a vast idea of her own opinion.
Rousseau made no reply; indeed he appeared to me like a frightened child in the presence of its nurse; and I could quickly see, that from the moment of her entering the room he had become restless and dejected, he fidgeted on his seat, and seemed like a person in excessive pain. At length he rose, and requesting my pardon for absenting himself, he added, “My wife will have the honour to entertain you whilst I am away.” With these words he opened a small glass-door, and disappeared in the neighbouring room.
When we were alone with Thérèse, she lost no time in opening the conversation.
“Madam,” cried she, “I trust you will have the goodness to excuse M. Rousseau; he is very unwell; it is really extremely vexatious.”
I replied that M. Rousseau had made his own excuses. Just then Thérèse, wishing to give herself the appearance of great utility, cried out,
“Am I wanted there, M. Rousseau?”
“No, no, no,” replied Jean Jacques, in a faint voice, which died away as if at a distance.
He soon after re-entered the room.
“Madam,” said he, “have the kindness to place your music in other hands to copy; I am truly concerned that I cannot execute your wishes, but I feel too ill to set about it directly.”
I replied, that I was in no hurry; that I should be in Paris some time yet, and that he might copy it at his leisure. It was then settled that it should be ready within a week from that time; upon which I rose, and ceremoniously saluting Thérèse, was conducted to the door by M. Rousseau, whose politeness led him to escort me thither, holding his cap in his hand. I retired, filled with admiration, respect, and pity.