My only fear was that because of its extreme simplicity, the development of my story might have been tedious, and that I had not been able to provide enough interest to hold the reader to the end. On this point I was reassured by a single incident which flattered me more than all the compliments that the work brought me.
It appeared at the beginning of Carnival-time, and a book-hawker took it to the Princess de Talmont* one day when there was a ball at the Opera. After supper she got dressed to go and started to read the new novel until it was time. At midnight she ordered her horses to be put in, and went on reading. When they came to tell her that her coach was ready, she did not answer. Her servants noticed her absence of mind and came to warn her that it was two o’clock. ‘There is no hurry yet,’ she said, and went on reading. Some time later, her watch having stopped, she rang to know the hour. She was told that it was four o’clock. ‘That being the case,’ she said, ‘it is too late to go to the ball. Take out the horses.’ Then she had herself undressed and spent the rest of the night reading.
Since I was told this story I have always wanted to meet Mme de Talmont, not only to learn from her own lips whether it is absolutely true, but also because I have always believed that no one could take so lively an interest in Héloïse without possessing that sixth sense, that moral sensibility, with which so few hearts are endowed and without which no one could understand my own.
What won me the women’s favour was their belief that I had written my own story, and that I was myself the hero of my novel. This belief was so firmly established that Mme de Polignac wrote to Mme de Verdelin, begging her to persuade me to let her see Julie’s portrait. Everybody was convinced that it was impossible to express feelings so vividly unless one had felt them, or so to depict the raptures of love except with one’s own heart as model. In that they were right, and it is true that I wrote the novel in a state of burning ecstasy. But they were wrong in supposing that I had required real objects to produce that condition. They were far from imagining how enraptured I could be by creatures of the imagination. But for some reminiscences of my youth and of Mme d’Houdetot, the loves I have felt and described might have been no more than the nymphs of the air. I refused either to confirm or deny an error that redounded to my advantage. The preface in dialogue, which I caused to be printed separately, will show how I left the public in suspense on that point. Rigid moralists may say that I should frankly have declared the truth. For my part, I cannot see what there was to compel me, and I think I should have shown more stupidity than frankness if I had made an unnecessary declaration.
At about the same time appeared my Perpetual Peace, the manuscript of which I had handed over in the preceding years to a certain M. de Bastide, editor of a journal called The World,* into which, whether I liked it or not, he was anxious to pack all my writings. He was an acquaintance of M. Duclos, and came on his introduction to beg for my help in filling his journal. He had heard of Julie, and wanted me to let it appear there. He wanted Émile as well, and he would have asked me to give him The Social Contract if he had known of its existence. Finally, worn out by his badgering, I decided to give him my extracts from The Perpetual Peace for twelve louis. Our agreement was that he should print it in his paper. But as soon as he had possession of the manuscript he thought fit to have it printed separately with some cuts required by the censor. What would have happened if I had appended my own criticism of the work, which fortunately I never mentioned to M. de Bastide, and which was not included in our bargain! This criticism is still in manuscript among my papers. If ever it appears the world will see what amusement I must have derived from Voltaire’s witticisms and his complacency on this subject. For I well knew the poor man’s incapacity for those matters of politics on which he ventured to hold forth.
In the midst of my popular success and at the height of my favour with the ladies, I felt myself losing ground at the Hôtel de Luxembourg, not with the Marshal, who seemed to redouble his kindnesses and his friendship for me every day, but with Mme de Luxembourg. Now that I had nothing more to read to her I was less free of her room; and though I called with great regularity during her visits to Montmorency I hardly saw her any more except at table. Now, even the place at her side was no longer reserved for me. As she had ceased to offer me that favour and spoke to me very little, and as I had not a great deal to say to her either, I was just as glad to take another seat where I was more at my ease, particularly in the evenings. For unconsciously I was gradually acquiring the habit of sitting nearer the Marshal.
Apropos of the evenings, I remember having said that I did not take supper at the Château, and that was true at the beginning of our acquaintance. But since M. de Luxembourg never dined, and did not even sit down to table, the result was that at the end of several months, although already very intimate in the house, I had never taken a meal with him. He was so kind as to remark on this fact; and this decided me to sup there sometimes, when there was not much company. I came off very well by this, seeing that we dined more or less in the open air and, as they say, off the edge of the table, whereas supper was a very long meal, because the guests enjoyed lingering over it as a rest after their long walk. It was very good too, because M. de Luxembourg was fond of his food, and very pleasant since Mme de Luxembourg was a charming hostess. Without this explanation it would be difficult to understand the end of a letter from M. de Luxembourg (Packet C, No. 36) in which he tells me that he remembers our walks with very great pleasure; especially, he adds, when on our return in the evening we found no marks of carriage wheels in the courtyard. For as the gravel was raked over every morning to remove the ruts, I could tell by the number of wheel tracks how many people had come that afternoon.
That year (1761) marked the climax of the continual losses suffered by that good gentleman since I had had the honour of knowing him. It was as if the ills which fate had in store for me had begun by striking the man to whom I was most deeply attached and who was most worthy of my love. In the first year he lost his sister, the Duchess of Villeroy; in the second his daughter, the Princess de Robeck; in the third he lost his only son, the Duke de Montmorency, and the Count de Luxembourg, his grandson: the last representatives of his branch and bearers of his name. He bore all these losses with apparent courage; but his heart did not cease to bleed within for the rest of his life, and his health gradually declined. The unforeseen and tragic death of his son must have been all the more grievous to him for occurring precisely at the moment when the King had granted him for that son, and promised him for his grandson, the reversion of his commission as Captain of the Bodyguard. He had the pain of watching the child, in whom he had placed his greatest hopes, gradually fade away; and this because of his mother’s blind trust in a doctor who let the poor child die of sheer starvation, feeding him on nothing but drugs. Alas, if only they had listened to me, grandfather and grandson would both be alive still. I said everything I could, I wrote to the Marshal, and made every possible protest to Mme de Montmorency against this worse than austere diet which, in her trust of the doctor, she imposed on her son. Mme de Luxembourg, who thought as I did, was unwilling to usurp a mother’s authority; M. de Luxembourg, who was mild and weak, did not like to make opposition; and Mme de Mont-morency’s faith in Bordeu was so implicit that her son finally fell a victim to it. How pleased the poor child was when he could get permission to come to Mont-Louis with Mme de Boufflers, when he would ask Thérèse for something to eat and put a little nourishment into his famished stomach! How I deplored the miseries of the great, in secret, when I saw the sole heir to so huge an estate, to so great a name, to such titles and dignities, devouring a wretched morsel of bread like a hungry beggar! In the end, despite all that I said and did, the doctor triumphed and the child died of starvation.
The same trust in quacks which destroyed the grandson dug the grandfather’s grave also. But he worsened the situation by his weak-minded attempts to conceal from himself the infirmities of old age. M. de Luxembourg had occasionall
y had some pain in his big toe; he had one attack at Montmorency which gave him insomnia and a slight fever. I dared to mention the word gout but M. de Luxembourg gave me a trouncing. The underling who acted as M. de Luxembourg’s surgeon maintained that it was not gout, and proceeded to dress the affected part with a healing ointment. Unfortunately the pain died down and, when it returned, they of course applied the same remedy that had previously given relief. His constitution grew weaker, his pains increased, and so did the remedies. Mme de Luxembourg, who saw at last that it was gout, opposed this senseless treatment. They concealed his condition from her, and M. de Luxembourg died after a few years, through his own fault and his obstinate endeavours to cure himself. But let us not so far anticipate misfortunes. I have plenty of others to recount before that one.
It is strange by what fatality everything I might say or do seemed bound to displease Mme de Luxembourg, even when I was most concerned to preserve her goodwill. The disasters which overtook M. de Luxembourg in quick succession only served to strengthen my attachment to him, and therefore to Mme de Luxembourg. For they have always seemed to me so genuinely united that any feelings one had for the one necessarily extended to the other. The Marshal was growing old. His constant attendance at Court and the duties entailed, the continual hunts, and, even more, the fatigues of his three months on duty, would have required the strength of a young man, and I could see nothing capable of sustaining him against such a strain. Since his honours would be dispersed and his name would the with him, there was little need for him to continue a laborious life, the principal object of which had been to obtain the Prince’s favour for his children. One day when we three were alone and he was complaining of the fatigues of Court life, like a man depressed by his losses, I dared to speak to him of retirement, and to offer him the counsel which Cineas gave to Pyrrhus. He sighed, and gave me no definite answer. But the moment Mme de Luxembourg saw me alone she scolded me soundly for my advice, which seemed to have alarmed her. She added one thing the justice of which I could see, and which made me give up the idea of ever touching that note again. She said that the long habit of living at Court had made it a real need, that at that time it was a distraction for M. de Luxembourg, and that the retirement I suggested would be no rest for him but rather a form of exile, in which idleness, boredom, and melancholy would soon put an end to his life. Although she must have seen that she had convinced me, although she must have relied on the promise which I made her and kept, she never seemed to me quite easy on that score, and I remember that from that time on my conversations with the Marshal were less frequent, and were nearly always interrupted.
Whilst my awkwardness and bad luck thus united to injure me in her eyes, the people she saw and loved most were of no assistance to me. The Abbé de Boufflers, in particular, a young man of the utmost brilliance, never seemed well-disposed towards me; and not only was he the one person in Mme de Luxembourg’s circle who never showed me the least attention, but I seemed to notice that on every visit he made to Montmorency I lost ground with her; and it is true that even if it was not intentional on his part his sole presence was enough to account for it, so dull did my heavy spropositi* appear beside the grace and refinement of his wit. During the first two years he hardly came to Montmorency, and thanks to Mme de Luxembourg’s indulgence I held my own fairly well. But as soon as he came at all regularly I was utterly routed. I should have liked to take refuge under his wing and do something to win his friendship. But the same stupidity which made it necessary for me to please him prevented me from doing so, and the awkward attempts which I made to win him finally undid me with Mme de Luxembourg, without being of any service to me with the Abbé. With his intellect he might have succeeded in anything; but his inability to apply himself and his love of amusement have prevented his acquiring more than a half mastery of any accomplishment. By way of compensation his attainments are various, and that is all he needs in the great world where he is ambitious to shine. He writes occasional verse very well, composes pretty little letters, can strum a bit on the zither, and daub a little with pastels. He had the idea of doing Mme de Luxembourg’s portrait. The result was horrible. She declared that it was not at all like her, and that was true. The treacherous Abbé consulted me; and I, like a fool and a liar, said that it was a likeness. I wanted to please the Abbé; but I did not please the lady, who noted it down against me; and the Abbé laughed at me, having scored his point. I learned from the ill-success of my tardy first attempt not to try and play the flatterer again, since I had no talent for it.
My talent was for telling men useful but unwelcome truths with some vigour and courage; and I ought to have stopped there. I was not born, I will not say to flatter, but to praise. The awkwardness of the praise I have tried to bestow has done me more harm than the severity of my censures. I have an example of this which I will quote, so terrible in its effects that it not only decided my fate for the remainder of my life, but will probably decide my reputation for all posterity.
During M. and Mme de Luxembourg’s visits to Montmorency, M. de Choiseul sometimes came to supper at the Château. He came one evening after I had left. There was talk of me, and M. de Luxembourg told him my adventures in Venice with M. de Montaigu. M. de Choiseul said that it was a pity that I had abandoned that career, and that if I wanted to return to it he would be very glad to find me a post. M. de Luxembourg repeated this to me. I was particularly gratified since I was not used to being pampered by ministers, and I am not at all certain whether, if my health had permitted my considering it, I should not have made a fool of myself again despite all my resolutions. Ambition only prevailed with me in the short intervals when I was free from all other passions; but one of those intervals would have been enough to catch me again. This kind proposal of M. de Choiseul’s won him my affection, and increased the admiration which certain actions of his ministry had given me for his talents; the Family Compact,* in particular, seemed to me the work of a first-class statesman. He gained still more in my estimation by the low opinion I had of his predecessors, not excepting Mme de Pompadour, whom I regarded as a sort of first minister; and when rumour had it that one of the two would drive out the other, I felt that I was praying for the glory of France when I prayed for M. de Choiseul’s victory. I had always felt an antipathy for Mme de Pompadour, even when I met her at Mme de la Popelinière’s, before her rise to power and when she was still Mme d’Étiolés. Since then I had been displeased by her silence on the subject of Diderot and by her whole treatment of me, in the matter of Ramiro’s Feast and the Gallant Muses, and also over, The Village Soothsayer which had never brought me in any sort of profit proportionate to its success. On no occasion indeed had I found her at all disposed to be of service to me; which did not prevent the Chevalier de Lorenzi from proposing that I should write something in that lady’s praise, and hinting at the same time that this might be useful to me. This suggestion particularly annoyed me, since I clearly saw that he was not making it of his own accord. For I knew that the man was a nonentity in himself, and never thought or acted except at the instance of someone else. I am not sufficiently capable of self-restraint to have been able to hide from him my contempt for his proposal, or from anyone else my dislike for the favourite, of which I am sure she was herself aware. So it was that my self-interest and my natural inclinations combined together in framing the prayer I offered up for M. de Choiseul’s victory. Prepossessed by my respect for his talents, which were all that I knew of him, full of gratitude for his kindly intentions and, moreover, totally ignorant in my retirement of his habits and way of life, I already considered him the avenger of the people and of myself. And as I was then putting the finishing touches to The Social Contract, I set down in a single passage my opinion of the preceding ministries and of the one which was beginning to eclipse them. On this occasion I failed to observe my most constant principle and, what is more, it did not occur to me that when one wants to administer strong praise and blame in the same article, without mentioni
ng names, one must so apply the praise to those for whom it is intended that the most ticklish pride cannot find anything ambiguous about it. In this respect I felt so foolishly secure that it never even occurred to me that anyone could make a false application. It will soon be seen whether I was right.
It had always been one of my misfortunes to be connected with authoresses. I expected to be free from them at least among the great. But I was not; that misfortune pursued me. Mme de Luxembourg was never, as far as I know, attacked by the complaint, but the Countess de Boufflers was. She wrote a tragedy in prose, which was at first read, circulated, and praised in the Prince de Conti’s circle. But not satisfied with all their eulogies, she turned to me to secure mine too. I gave it to her, but only in moderation, as the work deserved. I also informed her, as I thought only fair, that her play entitled The Noble Slave* was very close to a little known English piece, which had however been translated, entitled Oroonoko.† Mme de Boufflers thanked me for my opinion, but assured me at the same time that her play was not at all like the English one. I have never spoken of her plagiarism to anyone in the world but her, and then only in fulfilment of a duty which she had imposed on me. Nevertheless I have often remembered since then the way in which Gil Bias fulfilled his duty to the preaching archbishop, and its results.