“Really, Monsieur,” said he, “you must have a strong head—you, le bel Irlandois—to have prevented it from being turned with all the flattery you have received in Paris. There is nothing which gets into the head—worse still, into the heart,—so soon, so dangerously, as the flattery of pretty women. And yet I declare you seem wonderfully sober, considering.”
“Ne jurez pas,” said Ormond; “but at least in one respect I have not quite lost my senses; I know the value and feel the want of a safe, good guide in Paris: if I dared to ask such a favour, I should, since he has expressed some interest for me, beg to be permitted to cultivate the acquaintance of M. l’Abbé Morellet.”
“Ah ça—now my head will turn, for no head can stand the dose of flattery that happens to suit the taste. I am particularly flattered by the idea of being a safe, good friend; and frankly, if I can be of any service to you, I will. Is there any thing I can do for you?”
Ormond thanked him, and told him that it was his great ambition to become acquainted with the celebrated men of literature in Paris—he said he should feel extremely obliged if M. Morellet would take occasion to introduce him to any of them they might meet in society.
“We must do better for you,” said the abbé—“we must show you our men of letters.” He concluded by begging Ormond to name a day when he could do him the honour to breakfast with him. “I will promise you Marmontel, at least; for he is just going to be married to my niece, and of him we shall be secure: as to the rest I will promise nothing, but do as much as I can.”
The men of letters about this period in Paris, as the Abbé explained to Ormond, began to feel their own power and consequence, and had assumed a tone of independence, as yet tempered with due respect for rank. Many of them lived or were connected with men of rank, by places about the court, by secretaryships and pensions, obtained through court influence. Some were attached by early friendship to certain great families; had apartments to themselves in their hotels, where they received what friends they pleased; and, in short, lived as if they were at home. Their company was much sought for by the great; and they enjoyed good houses, good tables, carriages, all the conveniences of life, and all the luxuries of the rich, without the trouble of an establishment. Their mornings were their own, usually employed in study; and the rest of the day they gave themselves to society. The most agreeable period of French literary society was, perhaps, while this state of things lasted.
The Abbé Morellet’s breakfast was very agreeable; and Ormond saw at his house what had been promised him, many of the literary men at Paris. Voltaire was not then in France; and Rousseau, who was always quarrelling with somebody, and generally with every body, could not be prevailed upon to go to this breakfast. Ormond was assured that he lost nothing by not seeing him, or by not hearing his conversation, for that it was by no means equal to his writings; his temper was so susceptible and wayward, that he was not fit for society—neither capable of enjoying, nor of adding to its pleasures. Ormond heard, perhaps, more of Rousseau and Voltaire, and learnt more of their characters, by the anecdotes that were related, and the bon-mots that were repeated, than he could have done if they had been present. There was great variety of different characters and talents at this breakfast; and the Abbé amused himself by making his young friend guess who the people were, before he told their names. It was happy for Ormond that he was acquainted with some of their writings (this he owed to Lady Annaly’s well-chosen present of French books). He was fortunate in his first guess—Marivaux’s conversation was so like the style of his writings, so full of hair-breadth distinctions, subtle exceptions, and metaphysical refinement and digressions, that Ormond soon guessed him, and was applauded for his quickness. Marmontel he discovered, by his being the only man in the room who had not mentioned to him any of “Les Contes Moraux.” But there was one person who set all his skill at defiance: he pronounced that he was no author—that he was l’ami de la maison: he was so indeed wherever he went—but he was both a man of literature, and a man of deep science—no less a person than the great D’Alembert. Ormond thought D’Alembert and Marmontel were the two most agreeable men in company. D’Alembert was simple, open-hearted, unpresuming, and cheerful in society. Far from being subject to that absence of mind with which profound mathematicians are sometimes reproached, D’Alembert was present to every thing that was going forward—every trifle he enjoyed with the zest of youth, and the playfulness of childhood. Ormond confessed that he should never have guessed that he was a great mathematician and profound calculator.
Marmontel was distinguished for combining in his conversation, as in his character, two qualities for which there are no precise English words, naïveté and finesse. Whoever is acquainted with Marmontel’s writings must have a perfect knowledge of what is meant by both.
It was fortunate for our young hero that Marmontel was, at this time, no longer the dissipated man he had been during too great a period of his life. He had now returned to his early tastes for simple pleasures and domestic virtues—had formed that attachment which afterwards made the happiness of his life: he was just going to be married to the amiable Mdlle. Montigny, a niece of the Abbé Morellet. She and her excellent mother lived with him; and Ormond was most agreeably surprised and touched at the unexpected sight of an amiable, united, happy family, when he had expected only a meeting of literati.
The sight of this domestic happiness reminded him of the Annalys—brought the image of Florence to his mind. If she had been but sincere, how he should have preferred her to all he had seen!