She seemed upset. I had never seen her in that state before. Her anxiety touched me. At this moment of surprise, in the middle of the night, I was not free from emotion myself. But when I saw her I ceased to think of myself and thought only of her, and of the sad part she would play if I allowed myself to be caught. For though I felt possessed of sufficient courage to tell nothing but the truth, even if it should injure or ruin me, I did not credit myself with enough presence of mind, or adroitness, or even perhaps with enough firmness, to avoid compromising her, if I were hard pressed. This decided me to sacrifice my reputation to her peace of mind and to do for her, on this occasion, what nothing would have induced me to do for myself. The moment I came to my decision I informed her of it, having no wish to spoil the value of my sacrifice by selling it at a price. I am certain that she could not have mistaken my motive. But she did not say a word to show that she was grateful, and I was so shocked by her indifference that I even considered changing my mind. But the Marshal came on the scene, and some minutes later Mme de Boufflers arrived from Paris. They did what Mme de Luxembourg should have done. I allowed myself to be flattered. I was ashamed to draw back, and all that remained to be decided was the place of my retreat and the time of my departure. M. de Luxembourg proposed that I should stay for some days with him incognito, so that I should have more leisure to deliberate and make my plans; I refused, and I also refused the proposal that I should go secretly to the Temple. I insisted on leaving that very day, rather than remain in hiding anywhere.
Conscious that I had secret and powerful enemies in the Kingdom, I considered that despite my love for France, if I wished to live at peace I must depart. My first impulse was to retire to Geneva, but an instant’s reflection was enough to dissuade me from doing anything so stupid. I knew that the French ministry had even more power in Geneva than in Paris, and would no more leave me in peace in one place than the other if they had decided to persecute me. I knew that my Discourse on Inequality had excited a hatred for me on the Council, the more dangerous because no one dared to express it. Lastly I knew that when the New Héloise appeared they had hurriedly banned it at the request of Doctor Tronchin. But seeing that nobody was following their example, even in Paris, they became ashamed of their foolishness and withdrew their prohibition. I had no doubt that they would find the present opportunity more favourable, and do their best to profit by it. Notwithstanding outward appearances, I knew that in every Genevese heart there lurked a secret jealousy, only waiting for the chance to be assuaged. Nevertheless patriotism called me back to my own country, and if I had been able to convince myself that I could live there in peace I should not have hesitated. But neither honour nor reason allowed me to seek refuge there as a fugitive; and I decided to retire to a nearby place and wait in Switzerland until I saw what course they would take about me in Geneva. It will soon be seen that I was not left in doubt for long.
Mme de Boufflers strongly disapproved of this decision, and made fresh endeavours to persuade me to go to England. I remained unshaken. I have never liked England or the English; and all Mme de Boufflers’ eloquence, far from overcoming my repugnance, served for some reason to increase it.
Having decided to leave that day, I was by morning in everyone’s eyes as good as gone; and La Roche, whom I sent to fetch my papers, refused to tell Thérèse herself whether I had departed or not. Since I had decided one day to write my memoirs I had accumulated a lot of letters and other papers; and it cost him several journeys. One section of these papers, which had already been sorted, I put on one side, and occupied myself for the rest of the morning in sorting the others, intending only to take what would be useful to me and to burn the rest. M. de Luxembourg was so kind as to help me in this task, which was so long that we could not finish it in the morning, and I had no time to burn anything. The Marshal offered to deal with the rest of the sorting, to burn the rubbish himself with his own hands, and to send me everything that he put aside. I accepted his offer, very glad to be relieved of the task, and to be free to spend the few hours remaining with those dear friends from whom I was about to part for ever. He took the key of the room where I kept my papers and, at my urgent request, sent for my poor ‘aunt’, who was consumed with most cruel anxiety as to my fate, and as to what would become of her, and was momentarily expecting the officers of the law, without any idea of how to behave to them or how she should answer them. La Roche said nothing to her, but brought her to the Cháteau. She thought that I was already far away. When she saw me she gave a piercing cry, and threw herself into my arms. O friendship, union of hearts and habits, dearest intimacy! In this sweet and cruel moment were concentrated so many days of happiness, tenderness, and peace spent together, and it was with deep pain that I felt the wrench of our first separation when we had rarely been out of one another’s sight for a single day in almost seventeen years. The Marshal, who witnessed our embrace, could not restrain his tears and withdrew. Thérèse did not want to leave me. I explained to her how difficult it would be for her to follow me at that moment, and the necessity for her remaining behind to sell my possessions and collect my money. When a warrant is issued for a man’s arrest it is usual to seize his papers, put a seal on his possessions or make an inventory of them, and appoint a trustee. It was very necessary that she should stay behind to observe what might happen, and do the best for me she could. I promised her that she should rejoin me very soon, and the Marshal confirmed my promise. But I refused to tell her where I was going, so that if she were questioned by those coming to arrest me she could truthfully protest her ignorance on that score. When I embraced her at the moment of parting I felt a most extraordinary stirring within me, and said to her in a burst of emotion that was, alas, prophetic: ‘My dear, you must arm yourself with courage. You have shared the good days of my prosperity. It now remains for you, since you wish it, to share my miseries. Expect nothing but insults and disasters henceforth. The fate that begins for me on this unhappy day will pursue me till my last hour.’
There was nothing left but to think of departure. The officers of the law should have come at ten o’clock. It was four in the afternoon when I left, and they had not yet arrived. It had been settled that I should travel by the post. I had no carriage. The Marshal, however, gave me a cabriolet as a present, and lent me horses and a postillion as far as the first stage where, thanks to the arrangements he had made, they found no difficulty in giving me fresh horses.
As I had not dined at table and had not shown myself in the Château, the ladies came to say good-bye to me in the first-floor room where I had spent the day. Mme de Luxembourg embraced me several times with an expression of some sadness. But I did not feel in her embraces the warmth she had put into them two or three years before. Mme de Boufflers embraced me also, and said some very nice things. Mme de Mirepoix, who was also there, embraced me too, which I found more surprising. For she is an extremely cold person, formal and reserved, and never seems to me quite free from that haughtiness characteristic of the House of Lorraine. She had never shown me much attention. Whether I was flattered by this unexpected honour and inclined to attach too much importance to it, or whether she really did put into her embrace a little of that pity that is natural in a generous heart, I found in her look and her gesture a certain intensity of feeling which touched me deeply. Looking back on it, I have often suspected since that she was not unaware of the lot to which I was condemned, and could not resist a momentary feeling of sympathy for my fate.
The Marshal did not open his mouth; he was as pale as death. He insisted on accompanying me to my carriage, which was waiting for me at the watering-place. We walked right across the garden without saying a word. I had a key to the park and used it to open the gate. Then, instead of putting it back in my pocket, I silently handed it to him. He took it with a surprising promptness, which I have not been able to refrain from often remembering since then. I have seldom experienced a more bitter moment in all my life than that of our parting. Our embrace was long a
nd silent; we both felt that this was our last good-bye.
Between La Barre and Montmorency I passed four men in black in a hired coach who saluted me with smiles. From the description which Thérèse afterwards gave me of the officers’ appearance, the hour of their arrival and their way of behaviour, I have never been in any doubt that it was they; especially since I subsequently learnt that instead of the warrant being issued at seven o’clock, as I had been told, it had not been ready till midday. I had to go right through Paris. There is not much concealment in an open carriage. I saw several people in the streets who greeted me as if they knew me, but I did not recognize any of them. That same evening I turned aside to pass through Villeroy. At Lyons post passengers have to go before the commandant. This might have been embarrassing for a man who did not want to lie or give a false name. I went with a letter from M. de Luxembourg to beg M. de Villeroy to get me exempted from this obligation. M. de Villeroy gave me a letter, which I did not use because I did not pass through Lyons. It is still among my papers with its seal unbroken. The Duke pressed me to sleep at Villeroy; but preferred to resume my journey, and travelled two more stages that day.
My carriage was uncomfortable, and I was too unwell to travel far in a day. Moreover, my appearance was not sufficiently impressive to get me good service; and, as is well known, in France post-horses only feel the whip by favour of the postillion. By paying these gentlemen handsomely I hoped to make good what was lacking in my speech and appearance. That made things worse. They took me for a poor creature travelling on somebody’s errand and using the post for the first time in his life. After that I got nothing but poor horses, and became a joke to the postillions. I ended as I ought to have begun, by being patient, saying nothing, and letting them have their way.
I surrendered to the reflections which came to me on the subject of all that had just happened; and that was enough to save me from boredom on the road. But this did not suit my state of mind or my heart’s inclinations. It is astonishing how easily I forget past ills, however recent they may be. When they lie in the future, anticipation disturbs and alarms me. But the memory of them comes back to me only dimly, and it no sooner comes than it fades. My cruel imagination, which ceaselessly torments itself by foreseeing evils before they arise, interferes with my memory and prevents my recalling them once they are past. No more precautions can be taken against what has happened, and it is useless to worry about it. In a way I exhaust my misfortunes in advance. The more I suffer in anticipation, the easier I find it to forget. Whereas, on the other hand, I am continuously preoccupied with my past happiness. I remember it and chew it over, so to speak, in such a way that I can enjoy it afresh at will. It is this happy characteristic, I believe, that I have to thank for never having known that vindictive feeling which is kept boiling in a resentful heart by the continual memory of insults received, and which inflicts upon itself all the tortures that it longs to inflict on its enemy. Being excitable by nature, I have felt angry, even enraged on the spur of the moment, but never has the desire for revenge taken root within me. I am too little concerned by the insult to worry much about the insulter. I only think of the hurt I have received from him because of the further hurt he may yet do me; and if I were sure that he would harm me no more, the harm he had done me would immediately be forgotten. Forgiveness of offences is constantly preached to us; and it is no doubt a beautiful virtue, but it does not apply to me. I do not know whether my heart could subdue its hatred, for it has never felt any; and I think too little about my enemies to claim the merit of forgiving them. I will not say how cruelly they torment themselves in order to torment me. I am at their mercy; they have absolute power, and they use it. There is only one thing beyond their reach, and that I defy them to attain; it is, by tormenting themselves about me to make me torment myself about them.
The day after my departure I so completely forgot all that had just happened – the Courts, Mme de Pompadour, M. de Choiseul, Grimm, and d’Alembcrt, their plots and their accomplices, that I should never have given them another thought during my whole journey if it had not been for the precautions I was obliged to observe. One memory which came to me in place of all these was that of the book I had been reading on the night before my departure. I also remembered Gessner’s* Idylls, which his translator Hubert had sent me some time before. These two ideas took so strong a hold on me and became so blended in my mind that I decided to combine them by treating the theme of the Lévite of Ephraim in the manner of Gessner. His simple and pastoral style scarcely seemed suitable for so grim a subject, and it was hardly to be supposed that my situation at the time furnished me with such cheerful ideas as might enliven it. I made the attempt, however, simply to amuse myself in my carriage and without any hope of success. The moment I began it I was astonished at the pleasant flow of my ideas and the facility I found in expressing them. In three days I wrote the first three cantos of this little poem, which I afterwards finished at Motiers; and I am sure that never in my life have I written anything in which there is a more touching sweetness, fresher colouring, more artless descriptions, more exact delineation, or a more classical simplicity in every respect – and that despite the horrible nature of the subject, which is fundamentally abhorrent; so that over and above the poem’s other merits I can take credit for having overcome a real difficulty. If the Levite of Ephraim is not the best of my works it will always be my dearest. I have never read it through, and I never shall, without feeling within me the plaudits of a heart without gall which, far from being embittered by its misfortunes, finds consolation for them and the means of compensation, both within itself. If all those great philosophers were to be brought together who, in their books, are so superior to the adversities they have never sustained; and if they were then put into a position like mine and, in the first violence of their outraged honour, given just such a task to perform, we should soon see what they would make of it.
When I left Montmorency for Switzerland I made up my mind to stop at Yverdun with my dear old friend, M. Roguin, who had retired there some years before, and had already invited me to go and see him there. I learned on the road that Lyons would be out of my way, and this prevented my passing through it. But it was necessary to go through Besançon instead, a fortified city, and consequently subject to the same restrictions. I decided therefore to turn left and travel through Salins, on the pretext of going to see M. de Mairan, M. Dupin’s nephew, who had a post in the salt works and who had often in the past invited me to pay him a visit. The expedient worked; I did not find M. de Mairan at home; and delighted at avoiding the delay, I continued on my way without exchanging a word with anybody.
On entering the territory of Berne I called a halt, got down, flung myself on the ground, and kissed and embraced it, crying in delight: ‘Heaven, the protector of virtue be praised. I am setting foot in a land of liberty.’ Thus, trusting blindly in my hopes, I have always passionately loved what was fated to bring misfortune upon me. My astounded postillion thought that I was mad. I climbed back into my carriage and a few hours afterwards, to my pure and deep delight, I felt myself clasped in the arms of the excellent Roguin. Here I have need to summon fresh strength and courage, for I shall soon be in need of both.
It is not for no purpose that I have dilated, in the tale I have just told, on all the circumstances which I have been able to recall. Although they do not seem very enlightening in themselves, once one seizes the thread of the plot they will shed light on its development; and although they do not isolate the essentials of the problem I am going to outline, they offer considerable help in solving it.
If we suppose that my removal was absolutely necessary for the execution of the conspiracy against me, for it to be successful everything had to happen much as it did. But if, instead of letting myself be frightened by Mme de Luxembourg’s nocturnal ambassador and disturbed by his warnings, I had continued to hold out as I had begun, and if, instead of remaining at the Château, I had returned to sleep quietly in my bed till m
orning, would the warrant have been put into execution just the same? A big question upon which depends the solution of many others; and as we examine it there is some point in noting the hour at which the warrant was to have been issued according to my warning, and the hour at which it really was issued. A crude but impressive example of the importance of minor detail when setting out the facts, if one is looking for their secret causes in order by induction to explain these facts in their entirety.
BOOK TWELVE
1762 Here begins the work of darkness in which I have been entombed for eight years past, without ever having been able, try as I might, to pierce its hideous obscurity. In the abyss of evil in which I am sunk I feel the weight of blows struck at me; I perceive the immediate instrument; but I can neither see the hand which directs it nor the means by which it works. Disgrace and misfortune fall upon me as if of themselves and unseen. When my grief-stricken heart utters groans, I seem like a man complaining for no reason. The authors of my ruin have discovered the unimaginable art of turning the public into the unsuspecting accomplice of their plot, who does not even see its results. In relating, therefore, the events that concern me, the treatment I have suffered and all that has happened to me, I am in no position to trace them to their prime mover or to assume reasons when I state facts. These first causes are all noted down in the three previous books; every interest that was bound up with me and every secret motive is there exposed. But to explain how these various causes combined to bring about the strange events of my life, this I find it impossible to do, even conjecturally. If there are any among my readers generous enough to try and probe these mysteries till they discover the truth, let them carefully re-read the last three books. Then let them apply the information in their possession to each fact that is set down in the book which follows, and go back from intrigue to intrigue and from agent to agent till they come to the prime movers of it all. I am absolutely certain what the result of their researches will be, but I lose myself in the obscure and tortuous windings of the tunnels which lead to it.