"You were writing?" asked he. "Are we soon to receive another great work from Rousseau's hands?"
"No, sir," replied Rousseau, sadly, "I am too unhappy to write."
"But surely this is writing," and the stranger pointed to the papers around.
"Yes, sir, but I copy music, and God knows that in the notes I write, there is little or no thought. I have written books that I might give occasion to the French to think, but they have never profited by the opportunity. They are more complaisant now that I copy music. I give them a chance to sing, and they sing." [Footnote: This is Rousseau's own language. Ramshorn, p. 140.]
"It seems to me that there is great discord in their music, sir. You who are as great a musician as a philosopher, can tell me whether I judge correctly."
"You are right," replied Rousseau. "The dissonance increases with every hour. The voice which you hear is that of the people, and the day will come when, claiming their rights, they will rend the air with a song of such hatred and revenge as the world has never heard before."
"But who denies their rights to the people?"
"The property-holders, the priests, the nobles, and the king."
"The king! what has he done?"
"He is the grandson of that Louis XV., whose life of infamy is a foul blot upon the fame of France; and nothing can ever wash away the disgrace save an ocean of royal blood."