Tis Folly To Be Wise Death And Transfiguration Of Jean Jacques Rousseau

$.95

TO jjjs:

Ji

By OO3M FIJCrJ

Author of THIS Is THE HOUR,
PROUD DESTINY, JOSEPHUS, etc.

LION FEUGHTWANGER, one of the world's great novelists,
has written the astonishing, intimate story of Jean-
Jacques Rousseau, the wisest and most foolish of all
philosophers . . . the exalted, visionary, often ridiculous,
little man whose heights of philosophical grandeur were
equaled only by the degrading absurdity of his private
life. It is also the story of his effortlessly adulterous wife
... of the frivolous nobles of France who made it fashion-
able to read him, but who missed the point of what he
was saying . . . and of the heroes, villains and fools who
built the French Revolution on his words.

It is a story of great magnificence and great, ironic
bitterness; but one, also, of true comfort and inspiration.
For it relates how Rousseau, from beyond the grave, was
avenged upon those who sinned most grievously against
him. It tells of the good and the evil that came to the
world largely because a cuckolded husband, who hap-
pened to be a greatly misunderstood philosopher, was
murdered by his wife's paramour.

It contains two rather startling love stories, each in-
volving a lover of Rousseau's wife. One of them was a
stud groom, a lecher, a blackmailer. The other was a
young nobleman, who wanted only to be a disciple of
the man he revered. He found, instead, shame and ig-
nominy as the seduced seducer of his master's wife. Only
much later was he to discover a faith to lead him through
the turmoil of the revolutionary world into which he was
born, and a love which would survive war, and rebellion,
and the days of the Terror,

This, then, is the story of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, in
life and in death ... of his life as he lived it and as he
described it in his celebrated Confessions . . . and of his
spirit as it lived on and affected the destinies of those
he left behind.

1148 00491 1210

Tis folly to be

Keep Your Card in This Pocket

Books will be issued only on presentation of
library cards.

Unless labeled otherwise, books may be retained
for two weeks. Borrowers finding books marked, de-
faced or mutilated are expected to report same at
library desk; otherwise the last borrower will be held
responsible for all imperfections discovered.

The card holder is responsible for all books drawn
on this card.

Penalty for over-due books 2c a day plus cost of
notices.

Lost cards and change of residence must be re-
ported promptly.

Public Library

Kansas City, Mo.

TENSION ENVELOPE CORP.

,'TIS FOLLY

Also by Lion FeucKhvanger

THIS IS THE HOUR

PROUD DESTINY
STORIES FROM FAR AND NEAR

SIMONE

DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE

JOSEPHUS AND THE EMPEROR

PARIS GAZETTE

THE PRETENDER

THE JEW OF ROME

MARIANNE IN INDIA

THE OPPERMANNS

JOSEPHUS

SUCCESS

THE UGLY DUTCHESS
POWER

Deatk and Transfiguration of
Jean- Jacques Rousseau

A Novel by

LION FEUCHTWANGER

Translated i>y
Frances Fawcett

Julian Messner, Inc.

NEW YORK

Published By Julian Messner, Inc.
8 West 40th Street, New York 18

Published simultaneously in Canada

by the
Copp Clark Company, Ltd.

Copyright 1952, 1953, By Lion Feuchtwanger

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

Part One: Jean- Jacques's Last Days

Part Two: Jean-Jacques In Death

Part Three: Jean-Jacques And His Heirs

Part Four: Jean-Jacques And The People

Part Five: Jean-Jacques s Transfiguration

PART ONE

JEAN-JACQUES'S LAST DAYS

AN EAGERLY AWAITED GUEST

JEAN- JACQUES'S WIFE
JEAN- JACQUES LEAVES PARIS

BACK TO NATURE
FERN AND THE DISCIPLE

MIND AND HEART

NICOLAS AND THERESE

FERNAND'S ENTANGLEMENTS

A SERGEANT TAKES A HAND

HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS

THERESE'S SUITORS

CONFESSIONS

MORE CONFESSIONS

WHAT IS TRUTH?

CAVE CANEM

FRIEND AND FOE
OPUS ULTIMUM

Great men are meteors, consuming
themselves to light the world.

NAPOLEON

Chapter 1 An Eagerly Awaited Guest

AFTER BREAKFAST Monsieur de Girardin read liis mail. This was his
custom every morning, and he read now with no special attentive-
ness, chiefly from a sense of duty.

Suddenly his face lit up with joyful surprise.

Could it be? Was it possible? It was more than Monsieur de Gir-
ardin had dared to hope for. But there it was, he held the good tid-
ings in his hands: Jean-Jacques was coming! His friend Lebegue had
written to tell Monsieur de Girardin the glad news that his venerated
master, the greatest of living men, Jean- Jacques Rousseau, was to be
his guest.

Monsieur de Girardin paced the floor, holding the letter in his hand
and reading it again and again.

The philosophy of Jean- Jacques Rousseau had profoundly changed
the course of his life. Rene-Louis, Marquis of Girardin, Count of
Vauvr6 and Br6gy, Lord of Ermenonville and many other broad
lands, had been Lord Chamberlain at the court of the King of Poland
in Luneville and Commander of the Royal Guards. He had lived high
and been greatly envied. But then some twelve years ago he had
become acquainted with the books of Jean-Jacques, the Citizen of
Geneva, and had seen the hollowness of the life he was leading. The
world was corrupted by civilization; if you wanted to be free from a
tormenting sense of desolation, you had to get back to the simple life,
to Nature. And the Marquis had left the court of Luneville to reshape
his life by the Master's doctrines. He advocated political reforms be-
cause Jean- Jacques had preached reform in his book The Social Con-
tract; he brought up Fernand, his son and heir, by the principles
Jean- Jacques had laid down in his novel Smile; he remade his estate
of Ermenonville into a rustic landscape like the one Jean- Jacques had
described in his sentimental novel the Nouvelle Heloise.

Jean-Jacques himself had returned to Paris years ago where he now

lived, tacitly tolerated although officially banished. Monsieur de Gi-
rardin felt a burning eagerness to approach the great teacher, to talk
with him and exchange ideas. But Jean-Jacques was shy and inacces-
sible; the Marquis had been permitted to call on him only once, years
ago.

Recently the news had spread that Jean-Jacques, after all the trou-
ble and fret of his life in Paris, was once more looking for a peaceful
refuge in the country. Monsieur de Girardin had sent him a respect-
ful letter, cordially offering his hospitality. And he had asked a mu-
tual friend, Doctor Lebegue, to put all the advantages of the estate
of Ermenonville in a favorable light. But many notables were vying
with each other to get Jean-Jacques under their roof; the Marquis
knew his chances were slim. And now he had been chosen after all.

He wondered whether he ought to inform his son, Fernand, at once
of this good fortune. But he checked the impulse. Though his heart
was full of Jean- Jacques's libertarian ideas, he had retained from his
army days a strict sense of discipline and duty. After breakfast he
must make the rounds of the gardens. That was his schedule, and
even this morning he would stick to it The glad tidings would have
to wait.

He put on his low-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat and took his long
flexible, gold-knobbed cane. A tall, slender man of about fifty, dressed
with rustic simplicity in a long-skirted coat and low boots, he went
out of doors. A small retinue attached itself to him: the bailiff, the
head gardener, one of the household staff.

The daily inspection of his park was Ken6 de Girardin's favorite
occupation. And now that the gardens were to be crowned in glory by
the presence of Jean-Jacques, his rounds were doubly delightful.

Applying the principles of Jean- Jacques, Monsieur de Girardin had
compiled a detailed Handbook of Landscape Gardening, and the
grounds of his chateau were intended to demonstrate his theories. In
contrast to the stiff, geometric gardens of Versailles, his park at Er-
menonville was designed to inspire anyone strolling there with keener
awareness of Nature all of Nature. The gardens contained gentle
pastures and dusky woods; wild waterfalls, a quiet brook, and a
sweetly melancholy lake; noble, desolate rocks and lovely glens so
that you could roam according to your mood from one to the other
and fit the outer landscape to your inner needs. There were also re-
minders of the past. Here and there in the expanse of park a small
temple or a ruin recalled the glories of Greece and Rome, and there

were inscriptions of every kind, carved on benches, engraved on
columns, even scratched into the bark of trees, classical and modern
quotations to point up the emotional significance of the spot.

In this world the Marquis wandered day after day, peering and in-
specting. He had achieved much, but still he found imperfections,
things to be done but not yet accomplished, and this was both a per-
petual spur and a daily delight. Like a field marshal he raised his long
flexible cane and issued his orders to gardeners and workmen, giving
the object in question or even the man himself a gentle tap. For this
habit his people called the imperious, though benevolent seigneur
T,e Pere la Tapette.' Today his eyes were sharper than usual, his
ambitions more high-flown, for now his creation must not be found
wanting by Jean-Jacques.

He walked along the little lake. Above it, giving an effect of dis-
tance, rose a small temple, the Temple of Philosophy. He crossed
pleasant meadows where cattle grazed, ambled down the Avenue of
Dreams, climbed the woodland path to the boulders of the desert.
Here he stood enjoying the richly varied view that lay before him.
He felt confident; his world would withstand the scrutiny of the
man who had first imagined it.

What a providential inspiration it was that just three weeks ago he,
Girardin, had hit upon the idea of starting the Swiss chalet. The Mar-
quis went to the building site. Yes, the workmen were getting along
well. For a week or two Jean- Jacques would probably have to live
in the pavilion, but after that he would be able to move to the cMlet.
The cMlet rose out of a gently sloping meadow, in front of a sunlit
grove scarcely touched by human hand. These were the fields of the
Nouvelle HSloise, the 'Paradise of Clarens.' Jean-Jacques would live
amid the landscape of Saint-Preux and Julie, his immortal creations.

The Marquis had completed his rounds. Now he could allow him-
self the pleasure of announcing Jean-Jacques's impending arrival to
his son.

He sent for Fernand. The seventeen-year-old count as heir to the
Lord of Ermenonville he bore the title of Count de Bregy came
dressed even more simply than the Marquis. Instead of the usual
splendid coat and finely embroided vest, he wore a shirt open at the
neck.

"Count Fernand/' the father announced to the boy, "good newsi
Our friend and teacher Jean- Jacques is coming! From now on he will
live in Ermenonville!"

The young man's large black eyes lit up with such rapture that his
father was touched. "Well, my boy/' he said, trying to cover up his
emotion by a jocular tone, "have I done well? Are you pleased with
me?" Fernand, in a voice unsteady from emotion, answered, "Thank
you, sir. Oh yes, very much!"

As soon as he was alone, Fernand ran off into the woods with
which the gardens merged. He came to a hidden clearing, his favorite
retreat when he wanted to settle things in his mind. There he threw
himself down on the moss beneath an ancient black spruce that he
loved. He meditated.

Yes, his fatter had done well. But Jean- Jacques's coming was his
own, Fernand's, personal triumph. For Jean-Jacques though of
course this was a great secret was his friend. That time his father
had succeeded in getting an invitation to the shy philosopher's house
in Paris, he had taken Fernand with him. They had brought a score
for Jean-Jacques to copy; it was one of the Master's idiosyncrasies
that he wished to earn his living not by his philosophy, but by his
craft of copying music. And so there in the simple fifth-floor apart-
ment in the Rue Platriere, Fernand had stood before that frail-looking
man. He had gazed into those eyes filled with God and truth and had
been deeply moved by the simplicity of this greatest of living men.
And he had overcome his awe and spoken, said that he preferred
the earlier version of Jean- Jacques's opera The Village Prophet to the
one then being performed at the Paris Opera. Jean-Jacques had smiled
a knowing, faintly bitter smile and had replied that the young gentle-
man was not far wrong, that the new production was in fact artificial
and affected. But there were good reasons why this latest version had
been chosen for performance, he added. And then he had been al-
lowed to come a second time to fetch the copied music Fernand,
not his father; and once more Jean-Jacques had spoken to him. He
had permitted him to call a third time. Yes, Fernand had had three
conversations with the Master! There was no doubt about it, if Jean-
Jacques was coming to Ermenonville, he was coming not to his father,
but to him, Fernand.

His heart was bursting with joy; he wanted to whoop with happi-
ness. Here in the clearing, the forest gave back a wonderful echo. He
shouted, "Jean-Jacques! We are going to see Jean- Jacques, forest!" He
shouted, "Welcome, Jean- Jacques r And a hundred echoes returned
the words, "Welcome, Jean-Jacques!"

6

To impart his joy to the trees was not enough for him they could
not appreciate the fact that Jean- Jacques was coming to him. To him!
He must share his glorious secret with someone who would know
what it meant.

He rode over to Chateau Latour, to his friend Gilberte. He rode
just as he was, in his open-necked shirt, without a wig, his dark hair
blowing in the wind. A tall, thin young man with a bony face, a
big bold nose, a long neck and prominent Adam's apple, he was not
handsome, but his ardent black eyes made him so.

He reached Chateau Latour and made his way at once to Gilberte.
She was at a dancing lesson, sumptuously gowned, surrounded by her
companion, her English governess, and her dancing master.

Gilberte Robinet de Latour was the illegitimate child of a very
rich gentleman of the new nobility. Her mother had been an actress.
Both parents had died young, and she had been reared by her grand-
father, who had taken a great fancy to the child. Robinet, an exceed-
ingly rich financier and tax-collector, a farmer-general of the King's
Revenues, had adopted Gilberte and made her his sole heir. Recently
Fernand and Gilberte had become close friends. The Marquis did not
like Fernand's association with a daughter of the lower nobility who
was, moreover, of dubious origin. He was uncomfortable at the
thought of having to obtain the King's permission when his son mar-
ried; for unless he had the King's consent, Count Fernand could not
marry beneath him without losing title to the domain of Ermenonville
and to other privileges. But Girardin mastered his displeasure; he did
not want to betray Jean- Jacques's philosophy.

If he reluctantly agreed to take Gilberte into his family he wished
at least to have a part in her upbringing. But how much of a part
that was a question that had led to many tedious arguments with
Gilberte's clever, cynical grandfather, Farmer-general Robinet. He
by no means disliked Fernand and thought it rather a joke that his
illegitimate granddaughter should marry into the high nobility. On
the other hand, he was a hardheaded old fellow who didn't fancy
taking anyone else's advice about the education of his Gilberte. He
knew his Rousseau and regarded the man's ideas as a stimulating
topic of conversation, but quite Utopian; and he was fond of teasing
the Girardins about their enthusiasm for a man who wanted to turn
us all into Canadian savages. He had no objection to Gilberte's oc-
casionally wearing coarse, peasant-like dresses, nor did he do any-
thing to stop her from sometimes walking alone to Chateau Ermenon-

ville or even riding over there dressed like a man, & TAmazone. But
generally speaking, Rousseau or no Rousseau, he expected her to
behave as became a young lady of rank.

This year, moreover, she would be 'coming out,' and Monsieur Ro-
binet was having her carefully instructed in the complicated rituals
of salon and ballroom.

Fernand found her in the middle of one such lesson. He thought
the tall, lively young girl disfigured by the Parisian ball gown. Gil-
berte's warm, frank, vibrant face was so much more natural without
powder; her generous smiling mouth seemed so much more beautiful
to him without the beauty patch above it. But he had to put up with
it and sit sulking against the wall, watching his disguised friend and
beloved.

However, Gilberte perceived immediately that something impor-
tant had happened. Risking her grandfather's vexation, she made a
deep curtsey proper to the dance, said, "Excuse me, ladies and gentle-
men/' and left her astonished companions. Taking Fernand's hand,
she led him into her small boudoir.

But she could not immediately shed her ladylike manner. She
lowered herself grandly onto a sofa and invited him to sit down on
one of the small gilt chairs. They sat facing one another, he in his
open shirt and rough knee breeches, she in her sumptuous ball gown.
Her shoulders rose charmingly above the brocade; her thick blond
hair was piled high, curled and powdered, above the rounded, child-
ish, rather self-willed forehead.

"What is the matter, Fernand?" she asked. Fernand said, "J ean "
Jacques is coming! He is going to live at Ermenonville from now
on!" And immediately he simply could not keep it in any longer
he blurted out his secret. He told Gilberte about his three conversa-
tions in Paris and cried triumphantly, "He is coming to me! Jean-
Jacques is coming because of me!"

He could not sit still on the little gilt chair. He walked up and
down, fairly sputtering in his enthusiasm. His father, he said, for all of
his generosity and open-heartedness, had drunk too deep of the cor-
rupt philosophy of the courts of Versailles and Lun6ville. The teach-
ings of Jean-Jacques would not take on paper already written on.
Only they, the youth, could fully understand his thoughts and feel-
ings in all their wonder, simplicity, and newness. In the English
colonies in America, the New World, fighters for freedom were al-
ready putting Jean-Jacques's philosophy into practice. Now, living

8

in the aura of the Master and having the unspeakable happiness of
daily hearing his dear resonant voice, he and Gilberte would be given
the strength to do their part in building a new France in the spirit
of Jean- Jacques.

Gilberte listened. She had spent her childhood with her mother,
the actress, and had experienced many changes of fortune. From her
mother she had inherited sound common sense, and from her grand-
father's pithy, realistic comments on life she had learned much. She
saw the world more clearly than the Girardins and she was better
able to distinguish between dream and reality. Now, as Fernand in
his defiantly simple costume paced her elegantly appointed boudoir,
his Adam's apple bobbing up and down his long bare throat, his
whole body jerking with convulsive movements, the absurdity of the
scene by no means escaped her. But she also saw his ardent, vision-
ary eyes, heard his excited voice. She understood what Jean- Jacques's
coming meant to her gifted, courageous friend who was burning with
a hundred ambitions, and she did not smile at his overflowing
rapture. >,

Jean-Jacques's eloquence and charm, and the emotion of the Nou-
uelle H&loise, had affected her also; she looked forward with tense
curiosity to meeting the writer himself. In a few weeks, she would be
going to Saint- Vigor, her grandfather's country seat near Versailles.
What fun it was going to be to tell the ladies and gentlemen of the
Court about her conversations with the greatest author of the century.

Fernand suggested that they read together parts of the Nouvelle
H6loise, at Ermenonville, in the setting of Jean-Jacques. They had
done this before, now and then, and Gilberte agreed at once.

She changed her clothes. Now they were both properly dressed for
Jean- Jacques's world. They rode over to Ermenonville, and there they
read aloud of Julie's pure, deep, glowing love for Saint-Preux and
Saint-Preux's love for Julie. They themselves became these two; they
kissed, stopped thinking, were worlds away from the frivolous gal-
lantries of the Court and the city of Paris. And they were boundlessly
happy.

Chapter 2 Jean-Jacques*$

DOCTOR LEBEGUE came to Ermenonville to tell the Marquis about
Jean- Jacques's wishes and habits.

The famous doctor was a friend of both the Marquis and Jean-
Jacques. Rousseau trusted him because Doctor Leb&gue was opposed
to the medical theory then in vogue and worked with Nature, not
against her.

Lebegue spoke of how he had persuaded Jean- Jacques to move to
Ermenonville. First of all, he had got the women on his side; for in
practical matters Jean-Jacques depended on his wife, Thr&se, who
in her turn blindly obeyed her mother, old Madame Levasseur.
Knowing that the old woman was avaricious, Leb&gue had bribed her
with small gifts. He had also dangled before her the prospect that the
Marquis would have the moving attended to by his own people and
would repay her personally for all the trouble. Leb&gue would ad-
vise the Marquis to send Madame Levasseur fifty livres at once to
meet expenses. If all went well Jean- Jacques would arrive in the
course of the coming week alone, for the time being. The women
would come later, as soon as they had dissolved the establishment in
Paris.

The Marquis and Fernand passed the following days in eager an-
ticipation. But the week went by, and then a few days more, and no
Jean- Jacques appeared. Then came a message: would the Marquis
send carriages and servants to Paris for the moving.

The furniture came, and the women came - Therese and her
mother. But no Jean-Jacques.

Monsieur Girardin was dismayed, Had not Doctor Lebegue said
that Jean- Jacques would arrive before the women? They themselves
couldn't explain it; Jean- Jacques had left Paris several days earlier.
But they were not particularly worried. The strange man often took
roundabout routes, they declared, and drifted here and there. He
would turn up sooner or later.

10

The Marquis recovered his composure and courteously expressed
ids pleasure at the ladies' arrival. On the occasion of his visit in Paris
he had caught only a glimpse of Th6rese. He knew that when Jean-
Jacques had met her she had been very young and a waitress in a
shabby hotel. She was now about thirty-seven or thirty-eight years
old. She wore a simple gown of flowered siamoise an inexpensive
material, part cotton, part linen. Her chestnut-brown hair was con-
cealed beneath a bonnet such as women of the lower middle class
wore. To the Marquis, Madame Rousseau seemed common but not
without charm. Her rather plump face was almost expressionless, but
men might be attracted by her large, indolent eyes and the languid
movements of her body. Slowly, naively, without shame or modesty,
she took stock of things and people. She spoke little and seemed to
have difficulty in finding the right words.

Madame Levasseur, her mother, on the other hand, was quick with
her tongue. "I may have been born in Orleans, but Fm a Parisienne,"
she stated. She was old, probably over seventy, but tough and lively.
Her little frame was burdened with much fat; her black dress
stretched taut over massive breasts, and she breathed with difficulty.
But none of this troubled her. She was aware that, by reason of her
own personality and as Jean-Jacques's mother-in-law, she could de-
mand a great deal, and her piercing black eyes, hard and alert above
the small, flat nose, peered at the world belligerently.

The Marquis showed the ladies to the pavilion, where they were
to live for the time being. It was close to the cMteau, a trim, rustic
two-storied building once occupied by the steward. "I suppose you
would like me to send over a maid from the chateau to be at your
service constantly," Girardin said. 'Well, I like that, sir!" Madame
Levasseur replied. "What a pass things would be coming to if we
couldn't look after my son-in-law." And Th6r&se added in her rather
deep, halting voice, "Jean- Jacques likes to be waited on by me alone,
and no one else is going to do it."

Doctor Lebegue had forewarned Girardin that to avoid unpleasant-
ness with Jean- Jacques it was necessary to make concessions to the
women. Though his army days had accustomed him to command, the
Marquis controlled himself and patiently explained that here things
were not the same as in Paris. Even for trivial needs you had to go
long distances. For medicines, for example, which he had heard the
Master needed, it would be necessary to send someone to the apothe-
cary in Dammartin or Senlis. It was essential to keep in touch with

11

the chateau, and the women would need special attendance. Once
more he asked to he allowed to place one of the maids at their
disposal.

"If you insist, sir," Madame Levasseur replied, "then we will ac-
cept, with thanks/* But Therese declared with her phlegmatic ob-
stinacy, "Jean-Jacques must never catch sight of the girl you send us.
He wants to be left in peace. That's what he has come here for. We
won't let anyone in the house without his say-so. And when my moth-
er or I aren't here the house must be locked." Madame Levasseur said
placatingly, "My son-in-law has one or two idiosyncrasies." She enun-
ciated each syllable of the fancy word distinctly. "All great men
have their little quirks."

Girardin did not like the idea that within his own domain there
should be any place to which he, the seigneur of Errnenonville, was
denied admittance. But after all, he had a master key to the pavilion
as to all the buildings on the estate kept safely in his bedroom.
"Your wishes shall be respected, mesdames," he said. "And I think
I have just the right person for your purposes. It is my courier and
factotum Nicolas. He will keep himself permanently at your disposal
at the chateau. He is used to carrying out my orders conscientiously;
he will not be inquisitive. Besides, he is an excellent horseman, and
if you need anything at any time he can always ride into town. I will
send him over so that he can introduce himself to you."

Their household goods had been unloaded. The Marquis said he
would look in again later on to ask the ladies' wishes, and took his
leave.

The women had left Paris early in the morning. It was hot and
they were tired. Now that the furniture had been arranged, they de-
cided to rest. Madame Levasseur went upstairs to her bedroom.
Therese locked the front door, took off her gown, lay down on her
bed in the alcove and dozed off.

Suddenly, with a little cry, she started up. Someone was standing
in the room, a redheaded fellow of medium size, lean and straddle-
legged."Excuse me, madame," he said in a squeaky voice, speaking
French with an accent. "I knocked, and since nobody answered I
walked in." Therese had drawn a shawl about her. "But I locked the
door," she said. "Monsieur le Marquis," the fellow informed her,
"gave me his master key in case the ladies were out for a walk in the
garden. Monsieur le Marquis sends the ladies these fruits and sweet-
meats." He placed the basket on the table and fussily unpacked it.

12

From the twilit alcove Therese watched him, in silence, sitting up
in bed, her naked shoulders slightly hunched under her shawl.

The fellow had finished, but made no move to go. He regarded
Therese, her warm, dark-skinned, somewhat vague face, her brown
eyes with their animal placidity, her round, smooth throat, her plump
breasts hinted at beneath the shawl. "I am, as you might say, your
valet, madame," he said with an ironically exaggerated bow. 'Trench
people cannot pronounce my name. Simply call me Nicolas." His pale,
impudent eyes above his turned-up nose with its wide nostrils stared
unwaveringly at Therese as she sat there, half naked, in the warm
fragrance of her voluptuous body. As a result of her initial shock her
mistrust of this fellow lingered, but the boldness of his steady, lustful
look titillated her at the same time. She remained seated in silence,
her lazy brown eyes fixed on him, her body motionless.

"Do the ladies desire my assistance in any way at the moment?"
he offered. Th6rse replied in her languid voice that she would ask
her mother. As she went upstairs, he followed her with his eyes. The
long petticoat did not wholly hide her pleasantly rounded hips. She
was no longer young, but for all that a well-preserved, luscious piece
of female flesh, he thought

She came downstairs with old Madame Levasseur. "Monsieur le
Marquis has commanded me, madame," said Nicolas, again with ex-
aggerated civility, "to be entirely at your disposal." Madame Levasseur
examined him from head to foot. "You talk a strange sort of French,
my lad/' There was a hint of antagonism in her hoarse, toneless voice.
"I am a subject of His Britannic Majesty," Nicolas explained. "I don't
think we will need you much, monsieur," Madame Levasseur said
dryly. "At most for running errands." "I shall run errands, if you
wish," Nicolas said, and turning to Therese he added, "And if the
lady wishes to ride, I shall be honored to teach her a trick or two. I
used to be head trainer at Mr. TattersalTs in London. Monsieur le
Marquis brought me over here to put his stud in order and manage
it for him."

Th6rese regarded him incuriously but steadily. "The most important
thing is," said Madame Levasseur, "that you mustn't let my son-in-law
see you. He doesn't care for unfamiliar " she searched for the word
"for unfamiliar countenances." "What doesn't he care for?" asked
Nicolas. "Unfamiliar faces," explained Madame Levasseur. Nicolas
kept his eyes fixed on the dark-skinned Therese.

Toward evening, when it grew cooler, Monsieur de Girardin came

13

as he had promised. He praised the ladies for the speed with which
they had set up house, then invited them to let him show them the
park.

Outside the house a young man was waiting. Girardin introduced
him as his son, Count Bregy. Fernand joined the party, and the
quartet slowly strolled through the park.

The Marquis was used to hearing expressions of rapture from his
visitors. He waited for Jean-Jacques's womenfolk to break out into
enthusiastic exclamations. But all Madame Levasseur said was, "Very
fine, very pretty, isn't it, Therese?" and, "How nice and cool it is here."
At last the disappointed Marquis could not help explaining, "This
little vineyard is modeled after the landscape which Jean-Jacques
evokes in the fifth book of the Nouvelle Heloise. You remember, the
vintage festival." "Really?" said Therese. And Madame Levasseur, also
without enthusiasm, said, "The Nouvelle Heloise ~ yes, he often read
it aloud to us while he was working on it. He wrote it on gold-leaf
paper and had to have blue and silver writing sand for it. We had
to have everything sent from Paris. An interesting book/' The Marquis
was greatly put out.

The paths grew narrower and the four split up. Girardin and
Madame Levasseur went ahead; Therese and Femand followed.

Fernand was even more upset by the women's indifference than
his father. He had not dared to speak much with Th6rese in Paris, but
he had noticed that she was of a simple mentality. He knew, like
everyone else, that she was low-born, and to himself he had explained
Jean- Jacques's marriage as a symbolic act intended to express his
kinship with the people. Now, no longer inhibited by the shyness and
awe which the presence of the Master had inspired in him, Fernand
ventured to inspect Th6rse more closely. He expected to discover the
great simple qualities which the woman undoubtedly possessed, the
virtues which had made Jean-Jacques select this particular woman as
his life companion.

He regarded her from the side. A few chestnut-brown locks had
escaped her bonnet. She seemed to have no objection to his looking
at her; she even turned her face toward him, calmly returning his
scrutiny. Her large, beautiful eyes had the simplicity of Nature. And
if what she said was insignificant, yet her voice was deep and soulful.
Even her walk, it seemed to Fernand, was like a languid melody. Yes,
Jean- Jacques must have known what he was doing when he chose
this woman.

14

Meanwhile old Madame Levasseur, walking ahead with the
Marquis, was discussing practical matters. Her son-in-law, she ex-
plained, set store by his dignity. He did not wish to get anything for
nothing but wished to pay for his rent and board by copying music
for the Marquis as he had done in Paris. Now, of course people were
wild to get anything written by Jean- Jacques, but he never charged
more than the customary twelve sous per page. She had not wanted
to say anything about it that time in Paris, but usually she and Th&ese
managed it in such a way that behind Jean-Jacques's back they got
paid an additional sum. The Marquis would therefore permit her to
present her bill after Jean- Jacques's own. But for God's sake he must
never let her son-in-law hear of the transaction.

The stout old woman's cunning was distasteful to the Marquis.
"Please arrange the matter as you wish, madame," he answered rather
stiffly. Madame Levasseur detected the distaste in his voice. "He is a
bit of a crank, you see/' she explained. "He's always raising objections
you don't expect. He really needs peace and quiet, and he wanted to
go to the country, but you can't imagine what a fuss he made about
moving. It cost me a lot of sweat to bring him around."

"I am indebted to you for your trouble," the Marquis replied with
reserve. "I only hope that your stay here will in every respect be to
the Master's liking and to yours/'

"Everything would be easy," the old woman went on plaintively,
"if he weren't a great man, if he were normal. Sometimes you get
to feel there's a screw loose. Who would dream of harming him out
here? But before we even left Paris he kept growling, "And the door
is to remain locked at all times.' "

The Marquis recognized the threat. If he didn't promptly come to
terms with this harpy she would keep Jean-Jacques a prisoner in the
pavilion, and a fat lot of good the master key would do the Marquis.
"It goes without saying, madame," he replied, "that we will have
every possible consideration for Monsieur Jean-Jacques's desire for
solitude. On the other hand I have a natural desire to see him from
time to time and to listen to what he has to say." He stood still,
touched her lightly with his cane, and declared, "If you will help me
in this, madame, you can rely on my sense of gratitude."

She regarded him out of sly, darting black eyes. "All right, sir,"
she said, TU do my part."

15

Chapter 3 Jean-Jacques Leaves Paris

THE MAN WHOSE time was being haggled over, Jean-Jacques Rous-
seau, had left the house in the Rue Platriere a week ago, genuinely
intending to go to Ermenonville. In fact he had meant to make the
journey on foot; he was very fond of walking. It was not a great dis-
tance twelve to fifteen hours at a comfortable pace.

He wore a plain black coat and black stockings. He had with him
a knapsack containing only a few indispensable articles, and carried
a staff as he had always done on walking tours in his native Switz-
erland. A slightly built man of sixty-six, a little stooped, he walked
through the streets of Paris with a brisk, vigorous gait. He longed to
see trees that were free from dust and soot, to hold converse amid
Nature with brooks and rivers, with the wind wafting in the branches,
with his own heart, and with God. He yearned to be away from Paris;
in every Parisian he saw an enemy. This was a flight he was embark-
ing on.

But when he reached the boundaries of the city his pace slackened.
An idea which had been worrying him for some days past without
his putting it into words now suddenly grew clear, exhorting him,
bringing him to a halt. He must not go away yet. He must not leave
this damnable city until he had made one final appeal to it.

During these difficult years in Paris he had written a book, Rousseau
Sits in Judgment upon Jean-Jacques. In his thoughts he called the
book 'Dialogues,' because in it he argued with himself, accusing,
justifying, laying bare his heart. The book was not intended for his
contemporaries; it was meant to show posterity the senseless malice
with which his fellow man had misunderstood and persecuted him.

But he had always had great trouble with his manuscripts. False
friends had copied them in secret and published them in distorted
form, even reversing the meaning of some sentences in order to
blacken him. He must protect his great work of vindication from a

16

similar fate. What if the man to whom he was now going, what if
even Girardin should prove faithless, an enemy in disguise, lying in
wait for an opportunity to rob him of his manuscript? Did he not owe
it to himself and the world to find a safer place for his book?

The vague ideas of the last few days crystallized into a plan. He
must appeal to Providence itself. He must call upon it to send him
from the unknown a person to whom he could entrust his work. But
if it were his fate not to find such a person, then he must hand over
the manuscript to God Himself, must lay it down upon His altar.

But this undertaking involved a great deal of new delicate writing.
He might have gone back home, but he was afraid Therese and her
mother would try to talk him out of his purpose, and he was worn
out, he could not bear to let himself in for more of their nagging.
Where, harried on all sides as he was, would he find a human being
who without asking questions would put him up and help him?

Only one person occurred to him, someone whom he seldom saw,
who was not one to push himself forward; a man with a simple, honest
face. He was a dramatist named Fran$ois Ducis who had revealed
a sympathetic understanding for Jean- Jacques's sufferings.

To this man, then, Jean- Jacques furtively betook himself. He begged
him to take him in for a night or two without saying anything to a
soul. He asked only for paper, ink, and quills and to be left un-
disturbed. Ducis, a man of few words, consented.

Jean-Jacques set to work. In a pamphlet he addressed himself in
burning words to all Frenchmen who still loved truth and justice.
4 Why,' he complained, "have I, a forlorn, solitary man, for fifteen years
been humiliated, laughed at, misunderstood, insulted, without ever
finding out the reason? Why am I the only one not to know what
sentence has been passed on me, and why? Men of France! You are
being made the prisoners of a delusion which will persist as long as
I live.* He wrote out of the honesty of despair, but his repetitions
and his involved sentences so obscured his meaning that anyone un-
familiar with Jean- Jacques's work, life, and character could hardly
understand it.

He revised the text of the appeal, condensed, expanded. Then he
made many copies in the form of handbills. All day long he wrote.
And all night, by the light of candles. At the end he counted the hand-
bills he had written. There were thirty-six of them. That should be
enough to invoke the play of chance and make sure that his great
work was read by the right person.

17

He left Ducis's house as secretly as he had come. He had the hand-
bills in the pockets and cuffs of his coat; the great work of vindication,,
the 'Dialogues,* he had put back into his knapsack.

He went directly to the Luxembourg Gardens. There, in one of the
quiet side paths, he picked out a bench. He drew the handbills out of
his pockets, and out of his knapsack took the bulky manuscript. There
he sat on the shady seat, a frail, worn old man with haggard, furrowed
face and drooping shoulders. Beside him lay his 'Dialogues* and his
handbills, his despairing appeal to a man he hoped would understand
him. He looked at the spangles of sunlight dancing underneath the
swaying branches, enjoyed the gentle breeze of early summer, and
rested, gathering strength for the great venture.

He watched the passers-by. He was good at reading faces. If anyone
should pass by who struck him as receptive, he would give him the
appeal; and if on reading it the man should appear moved, he would
entrust to him the great manuscript to be preserved for posterity.

The passers-by were few. But they walked slowly, dreaming and
musing, so that he had the leisure to observe them well,

He let several go by. There wasn't a face that seemed capable of
responding to his message. But he must not hesitate any longer; he
must not shirk. He would have to make the attempt.

An elderly man approached at an easy pace. His face was friendly,
and there was no one else nearby. Jean- Jacques approached him and
held out his handbill. "Please take this, sir, and read it!" he said in
his deep, pleasant voice. The old gentlemen did not quite know what
to make of this strange person. "How much is your pamphlet?" he
asked cautiously. "Read it, sir. That is all I ask of you/' Jean- Jacques
pleaded urgently. "Do so for the sake of humanity and justice!" The
old man began, rather suspiciously, to read. 'Oh, you citizens of
France/ he read, 'citizens of that people once so lovable and gentle,
what has become of you?' 'Oh/ he thought to himself, 'obviously one
of those crackpot philosophers, those enthusiasts who want to change
France and the rest of the world as well/ He read a little further.
Then, being something of a philosopher himself, but a sensible and
discriminating one, he began to give Jean-Jacques advice. ""This is
extravagant nonsense you have here, my friend. You have not di-
gested your reading. Study quite simple books at first history,
geography. Then, when you are equipped for it you might try Vol-
taire or Rousseau/' "Please finish it, at least," Jean- Jacques pleaded
feebly. But the gentleman had had enough of this fellow and his hand-

18

bill. "Thank you, my friend, I have read enough," he said, and he gave
back the paper and set off at a brisker though still moderate pace.

Jean-Jacques sat down, breathed deeply, and closed his eyes. He
tried to get up his courage. A young lady came by. Women had al-
ways understood him better than men. This one carried her parasol
with a pretty, natural grace. Beneath the parasol shone a delicate,
sensitive face. She had surely read the Nouvelle Heloise and wept
over it; surely its ideas had impressed themselves upon her heart.
Jean- Jacques approached her. "I am an unhappy man, madame," he
said in a soft, gentle voice, and as she was about to walk on in con-
fusion he continued, "Do not leave me standing here, madame! I
beseech you in the name of all the agony of living beings." The lady's
step faltered. "Please read this," Jean-Jacques insisted, "and you will
at once recognize that here speaks one on whom has been heaped
immeasurable suffering and injustice. Grant me ten minutes, I implore
you! Please read this, madame" and he offered her the handbill
The lady stopped. She had indeed read the Nouvelle HSloise; she was
sensitive, and this person, though obviously come down in the world,
seemed interesting. Something in his voice moved her. The trouble
was that she had made a rendezvous with a friend here in the Luxem-
bourg, had only twenty minutes to spare for this friend, and was not
that he already approaching? "Calm yourself, monsieur, calm your-
self!" she said soothingly, and did not take his handbill,

He sat exhausted on his bench. How lovely it would be to go away,
to leave this crude, unfeeling Paris behind him! But he must not yet
give up. One last time he must appeal to the great city.

A young man approached, reading probably a student He would
try it on him. The young, their hearts not yet hardened, their feelings
not yet perverted, understood him better than the old. Impetuously
he approached the student, who, startled out of his reading, looked at
the shabby old man in bewilderment. "Read this, my dear sir, please!"
Rousseau begged him, holding out the handbill. The student was not
yet turned twenty, but he was a Parisian, he knew the world. No
doubt the old man was urging on him an advertisement for some
quack remedy, or for a brothel. "Very well, old fellow, since you're so
anxious that I should," he said with faint mockery. He took the sheet
and read it. It was exaggerated stuff; hard to make anything out of it
The style showed the influence of Jean- Jacques. He looked at the old
man waiting there, begging and demanding at once. What strange,
burning eyes he had! Surely it was "Excuse me," he said uncer-

19

tainly, "have I not the honor of addressing Monsieur Jean-Jacques
himself?" Jean- Jacques turned aside, embarrassed and rather alarmed.
He blushed. "But of course you are Jean-Jacques!" the student cried.
"What^unexpected good fortune!" And then, "May I keep this manu-
script?" he asked excitedly.

Two other young people had stopped, their curiosity aroused by
the student's vehement gestures and the timorous behavior of the old
man. "This is Jean- Jacques," the student announced. "Jean- Jacques
Rousseau!" "So it is, it is Jean- Jacques I" cried the others. "And yes-
terday the papers said that he was ill and had left the city!" More
people came on the scene, whispering among themselves. Jean-
Jacques was surrounded. Bewildered, he ran back to his bench,
gathered up his handbills, stuck the large manuscript back into his
knapsack. People crowded around him, "Let me pass, ladies and
gentlemen!" he implored them. Let me alone! I have important
vitally important business to attend to!" Hesitatingly, reluctantly,
they let him go. For a while they straggled after him, then dispersed.

He had important business to attend to. Now that humanity had
rejected him he would, as the inner voice had commanded him, turn
directly to his Maker, to God, the Protector of the downtrodden, the
Guardian of Truth and Justice. A verse from the Bible was in his
heart: 'O God, let me fall into Thy hands, but let me not fall into
the hands of men!* He walked toward God's house, and being a mu-
sician and a writer, he involuntarily turned the verse into fresh words
ringing, stirring words.

Now he was at the bridge. Age-old and gray, the cathedral of Notre
Dame rose before him. Thirty-six years ago he had seen it for the
first time; countless times since then he had been inside the cathedral
and was completely familiar with the order of its rituals. He knew
that on this particular day the choir would be empty. There, in the
choir of Notre Dame, on the high altar of this noblest of cathedrals, he
would deposit his work.

As always, his heart was eased and humbled by the sight of the
powerful yet delicate masonry. He crossed the square. He felt as if
he were entering the comforting dimness of a shady wood.

He entered the church by a side door and approached the choir
with the reverent, humble step of a pilgrim.

His heart stood still. The choir was closed. Never in all these thirty-
six years had he found the choir closed on a Saturday. Today the in-
exorable iron of the grating confronted him. A frightful miracle had

20

happened. God did not accept his vindication. God, like man, rejected
him!

He fled from the cathedral in unseemly haste. Like a hunted crea-
ture he ran through the streets of Paris to the city boundaries, to the
open country, away from all men.

Chapter 4 Back to Nature

HE WAS SOME time finding the solitude he sought For here in the
immediate vicinity of Paris the country was crossed and carved up
everywhere by roads, big and small, all crowded with carriages,
mounted men, and people on foot.

And even when he reached a quieter neighborhood there was still
no solitude. There were still people on the roads, though not so many.
Time was when his affairs and duties had obliged him, too, to act the
part of a gentleman and travel in a carriage with baggage befitting
his station. Then his cares had climbed into the carriage with him, as
had his shyness of the other passengers and the constraint his con-
sideration for them imposed. Once inside he had felt nothing but a
longing to arrive as quickly as possible. How much better off and freer
he felt now. He did not care when he reached Ermenonville. Tomor-
row, the next day, or the day after that it did not matter. And before
long, when he had got away from human beings, he would begin to
feel pleasure in his own rhythm, in the changing scene, the beauty of
Nature.

At last the city lay well behind him. He left the main road, chose
a narrow path, then an even narrower one. He wandered at random
in die woods and fields. Soon his despair gave way to an almost con-
soling resignation.

He sat down on a tree stump at the edge of a wooded grove and
rested.

It was refreshing to be alone. If you contemplated people from a
distance their weaknesses faded. You stopped expecting them to have

21

qualities they simply did not possess. How fortunate that the inner
law of his being always brought him back again to Nature, to those
things called Inanimate' that his heart endowed with the most won-
derful charms and sensations. How quickly unrest and despair were
dispelled in the peace of Nature! Fools said that only the evil man
flees from his fellows. The opposite was true. For the evil man it
might be hell to be thrown back on himself alone; for the good man
solitude was paradise.

Gradually his mind wandered. He sank into that sweet, melancholy
state of reverie in which all is imagery and music. He became one with
the landscape around him, with the trees, the moss, the ants and
beetles; he was part of these woods; there was nothing in him but
feeling. He was free from the burden of fruitless thoughts and vain
words; the dreary obligation to write lay far behind him.

For the remainder of the day he went where whim and impulse led
him. He held only roughly to his course toward Ermenonville and did
not hesitate to take long, winding detours.

Evening came, and he decided to sleep in the open as he had done
so often before. He lay down on the moss beneath a tree. Through
the branches he saw the faraway sky turning pale, then darkening.
Gone was the despairing urge to prove to callous, indifferent people
how pure his heart was and how false their own vision. He fell asleep
with a light and happy heart.

The next day and the next he drifted in the same way, aimless and
yet certain of his purpose, and it was not till the third day that in a
calm and peaceful mood he reached the village of Ermenonville.

He turned aside at the inn called The Chestnuts and sat down at
one of the bare wooden tables in the garden. There were cottage
flowers, a little pond with weir baskets. The innkeeper came out,
dressed with rustic negligence in shirt and breeches, a cap on his
head. With casual good nature he examined the dusty, unshaven
traveler and asked his wishes. Jean-Jacques ordered an omelette and
wine. Out on the road the village priest went by, reading his breviary.
The innkeeper and Jean-Jacques greeted him. "Good day, Goodman
Maurice, good day, monsieur," the priest replied. The innkeeper
brought the order. Jean-Jacques ate the omelette with relish and
slowly sipped the dark-yellow wine. The innkeeper sat down and
chatted with him. Suddenly something in Jean-Jacques's face appeared
to strike him. He stood up, removed his cap, and asked reverently,
in an excited voice, whether the gentleman was not the great Jean-

22

Jacques Rousseau. Rather uncomfortably, Jean- Jacques admitted that
he was. Goodman Maurice told him that he had read his works seven
times, every single page, and seven times had been deeply moved.
Moreover, Monsieur was most respectfully and impatiently being
awaited at the chateau.

Jean- Jacques was sorry that the days of his lazy, happy anonymity
were over.

Goodman Maurice sent his little daughter over to the cMteau with
the news that the anxiously awaited guest had arrived. The child came
upon the Marquis in the park, surrounded by gardeners and workmen.
He exclaimed with delight, kissed the little messenger, and set forth
at once to fetch Jean- Jacques.

Sure enough, there under the chestnut trees at the inn sat the
greatest thinker the French-speaking world had produced since Mon-
taigne and Descartes, talking to Goodman Maurice like an equal
just as Socrates might have spoken to a man in the street, or even to
a slave. Overcome with emotion, the Marquis walked up to Jean-
Jacques, laid aside his cane, and saying, "Permit me, Master," em-
braced him. He stepped back. "Welcome to Ermenonville, Jean-
Jacques Rousseau!" he cried with solemn fervor.

He conducted Jean- Jacques to the house in which he was to live
for the time being. Walking through the gardens, Jean-Jacques recog-
nized immediately and without prompting that the landscape had
been laid out according to his description. He stood still and looked
Girardin full in the face with his fine, eloquent eyes. "This is my
landscape," he said, "the setting of my Julie." The Marquis was over-
come with pleasure, but he answered simply, "Yes, Monsieur Jean-
Jacques, I made a modest attempt to reproduce your landscape."

They had reached the pavilion. "I must ask you," said Girardin,
"to make shift with this pavilion for the next few weeks. Another
dwelling is in preparation for you, simple yet conceived with love:
an alpine cottage from your homeland, a Swiss chalet in which I hope
you will be happy for many years to come." Jean-Jacques regarded
the pavilion, the tall trees surrounding it, the wooden fence, the brook
with the rustic wooden bridge, the little waterfall. He held out his
hand to the Marquis. "Thank you, sir," he said. "Hoc erat in votis.
This is just what I hoped for."

There were many, many things the Marquis longed to say to Jean-
Jacques. But he restrained himself, and merely drew a very large,
intricate-looking key out of his coat pocket. "Here, beloved Master,

23

Is a key/' he declared, "which will open to you all the gates and doors
on the estate. And now I leave you to your ladies/' he added quickly
and walked away, lest he make his guest uncomfortable by showing
his emotion.

Jean-Jacques entered. Seeing Therese, he realized how much he
had missed her during those last dreadful days in Paris. She was his
shield against the hostile world, the only human being on earth in
whose presence he felt safe. Slowly there came into her tranquil eyes
a faint answering glow. He embraced her. She did not ask the reasons
for his long absence. She was obviously glad that he was there at last.

He looked around, taking in his new home. There stood their dear,
familiar household goods: the simple wooden chairs with the rush
seats, the spinet with the B that always stuck, the chests of drawers,
the cupboard. Through the open blue-and-white curtains of the alcove
he saw the beds with their blue-and-white covers. There was the
writing table with the massive inkstand, the scraper he used to erase
his mistakes when he wrote music. There was the chest with the
manuscripts. On the mantelpiece in front of the mirror stood a coffee-
pot and cups. On the walls his engravings were hanging: the forest of
Montmorency, the lame beggar being fed by children. Here in the
walnut bookcase were his books and scores.

And there was the birdcage with the pair of canaries. The two
women had done well; they had arranged the furniture very much
as it had stood in the flat in Paris. But how much friendlier the room
and its contents looked here. In Paris one or two miserable pots of
flowers had stood upon the window sill. Here trees and shrubs looked
in through the large windows on every side; he could hear the mur-
muring of the brook; the room extended into the landscape. Once
again, in her choice of Ermenonville, Th6rse had proved to be an
instrument of Providence. Here he would spend his last years in
happy seclusion.

It was getting on toward evening; a chill came in from outside.
Ther&se unpacked his knapsack. He laid his manuscript with the
others in the chest Then he sat down in his favorite chair, the big
wooden chair with arm rests and a rush seat, and enjoyed the tran-
quillity of his new abode.

A low but insistent knock startled him. After the discreet, respectful
greeting he had received from the Marquis, he had hoped the people
from the chateau would leave him in peace. And here they were in-
vading his privacy after all. While Th6r&se ran to open the door he

24

stood up in vexation, turned away from the door, and went to the
window to look at the gardens.

Therese had opened the door and stepped outside. When she came
back into the house, she saw Jean-Jacques's face distorted with fear
and dread. "What is it? What is the matter?" she asked.

He did not answer.

A head had appeared at the window, mean and hostile with pale,
malevolent eyes, carrot-red hair, and a squat, wide-nostriled nose. The
head had examined him, grinning. They had spied him out. Even
here the enemy had his spies.

Therese was used to his not speaking when these strange moods
came upon him. She shrugged her shoulders and brought into the
room what she had found at the door, a basket filled with fruit, cold
meats, cakes, and sweetmeats. It must be a welcoming present from
the Marquis, she explained, delivered by the servant whom he had
assigned to them, and who had been instructed not to show himself
inside the house.

Slowly Jean-Jacques grew calm, and when old Madame Levasseur
came downstairs to greet him, all traces of his momentary alarm were
gone.

He spent a peaceful night

Next morning he rose very early, as was his custom when in the
country. Therese prepared a simple breakfast of coffee, milk, bread
and butter. The old woman was still asleep. They sat and talked idly
of everyday things.

Since he was in a calm frame of mind she ventured to ask about
his health. For ever since childhood he had suffered from a bladder
complaint which often caused him the severest pain and distressing
ischuria. His behavior was frequently dictated by this ailment. He
was reluctant to speak about it; even Doctor Lebegue had difficulty
in getting the details out of him. Therese was the only person with
whom he was candid. He let her hear his complaints and curses, let
her look after him. She knew that agitation was wont to provoke an
attack, and was relieved to learn that in spite of the hard time he
had had in Paris the affliction had for once spared him.

After breakfast he took his walking stick and went out of doors to
explore the world in which he was now to live.

He readily yielded to the illusion that the diverse landscape con-
veyed. There were heath, grove and thicket, virgin forest, lonely
crag and pleasant woodland. There was a stretch of park land con-

25

trived with artful simplicity to recall the fields in which the characters
in his books had strolled, and effortlessly his imagination transformed
the simulated design into those regions where he had experienced
such sweet sorrows and lacerating passions.

A narrow winding path led up a woodland hill. Halfway up, a
wasteland strewn with rocks and stones appeared. A log cabin was
there. Jean-Jacques sat down on a rock. Sweetly melancholic, the
landscape spread out before him, down to a small lake, and farther
yet, to wooded hills.

He descended to the lake and walked along the pale, shimmering
water. Boats lay invitingly on its edges. On a point jutting out into
the lake stood a great, spreading willow tree, its branches drooping
over the water. Opposite lay a small island which Jean- Jacques fell
in love with at once. It was covered with poplars whose trembling
leaves were mirrored in the lake. Beneath the dense, swaying twigs
of the willow was a small grassy bank. This would be the right place
for the blissful idleness he loved, for slowly flowing sensations half
pleasurable, half sad; the right place for melancholy dreams.

He wandered on, following paths which lost themselves in thickets,
and reached the boundaries of the park where it merged impercep-
tibly into the countryside, into open fields and then forest.

He headed back in the direction of the cMteau and found himself
in a grove of ancient ivy-wreathed trees that had been allowed to
become gnarled and cracked. Moss-covered tree stumps were every-
where. The branches were so interlaced as to form a canopy of foliage.
There were flowers growing in this bright and charming Virgin forest 7 ;
sunlight and shadow created graceful and bizarre patterns on the
mossy ground.

Jean-Jacques followed the course of a little stream which flowed
through the grove. As it gradually opened up, a gently sloping
meadow became visible. There, at the edge of the meadow, carpenters
were erecting a little house. He knew at once that it was meant for
him; it was the Swiss ch&let of which his host had spoken. He could
not distinguish the people over there very clearly, but he had an idea
that he could see the Marquis among them, could see him making
off, tactfully withdrawing at Jean-Jacques's approach* He smiled,
touched by such consideration.

He sat down on a tree stump and watched them building the pleas-
ant dwelling for his declining years on a piece of land which had
been landscaped in the image of his Nouvelle HSloise. Periods of his

26

life flowed into each other: his distant, happy past, his dreamlike
present, the prospect of a tranquil future in this little house.

He sat a long time in this way, transported, without desires, happy.
The sun rose high; he had lost all sense of time.

When he got back to the pavilion, the meat was overcooked.
Madame Levasseur grumbled. Therese did not grumble, but it was
plain that she was sorry about the good food that had been spoiled.

Chapter S Femand the Disciple

OLD MADAME LEVASSEUR proudly announced to the Marquis that she
had prevailed upon her son-in-law to appear the following evening
at Monsieur Girardin's table. And what a job it had been, she said.

Madame Levasseur was lying. Jean-Jacques had been so moved
by the sight of the Swiss cMlet and by Girardin's consideration that
without any intervention on her part he had offered to pay his respects
to the Marquis the following evening.

There was much festive excitement in the chateau. Fernanda tutor,
a withdrawn, scholarly Alsatian named Monsieur Gerber was almost
as wrought-up as the others. Fernand, with his father's permission,
sent a messenger to Latour, for naturally Gilberte must share the
wonderful experience.

Jean- Jacques was received at the main gate. He was punctiliously
neat, dressed in modest bourgeois fashion, and his manner was friend-
ly and simple. He greeted Fernand warmly and looked attentively at
Gilberte and Monsieur Gerber, neither of whom he had met before.
In fact he went up very close to them to see them better, for he was
shortsighted, though when Doctor Lebegue had advised him to wear
spectacles or a lorgnon he had indignantly rejected the idea. Nature,
he had declared, had its reasons for weakening a person's eyes; one
should not try to outsmart Nature.

An Irish setter of medium size, a fine long-haired female, took part
in the reception of the guests. The dog jumped up at Jean-Jacques

27

and gamboled about him, barking in happy excitement and showing
her deHght when he stroked her and talked to her. "My father
brought Lady over from England for me," Fernand explained. "Then
he brought you something unusually fine," answered Jean-Jacques
with the smile of a man who knows dogs.

There was solidity and good taste, and no ostentation, about the
way Chateau Ermenonville was furnished. Jean- Jacques particularly
liked the large music room with its many instruments, stands, and
scores.

He began to describe his walk through the park, and in the presence
of the whole company how the Marquis's heart was pounding
he praised the gardens. He had seen everything, noticed many of the
inscriptions. He also spoke of the Swiss chalet, and he himself now
referred to the landscape as his 'Paradise of Clarens/

When, after dinner, the Marquis asked whether they might have
some music, he sat down without any fuss at the piano, praised the
beautiful instrument, played and sang. "How weary I am of waiting,"
he sang, and, "It's divine to be fifteen and in love," and several more
of those tender, naive popular songs of his. His voice was deep, rather
tired, but warmly modulated.

"Enough," he interrupted himself finally, turning to Girardin. "It
would be a pleasure to hear a young voice now," he said. Fernand had
the temerity to suggest, "Do ask Mademoiselle de Latour, Father."
The Marquis, in the mildest of moods, replied: "Since it is your wish,
Count," and bowed toward Gilberte.

Gilberte was rather disappointed with Jean-Jacques. She found his
deliberately bourgeois clothes affected, and when he went right up
to whoever was speaking at the time and stared, she had to choke
back her laughter. Nor had he said a single word that could be con-
sidered impressive. The famous man left her cold.

When the Marquis called on her, she calmly asked Jean-Jacques
if he would sing his duet In the Shade of a Happy Valley' with her.
The Master, somewhat taken aback at such lack of respect, regarded
the tall, fresh young girl with his shortsighted eyes. "I shall not sing
again this evening, mademoiselle," he answered stiffly.

There was a short, embarrassed silence. Gilberte did not seem
really offended; she did what she had been asked to do, took up the
lute and sang.

She sang the song of King Henry and fair Gabrielle, a sort of sol-
dier's ballad which had almost come to be regarded as Chateau Er-

28

menonville's own song. For Henry the Fourth - Henry the Great -
had often visited his friend and brother-in-arms De Vic, Lord of
CMteau Ermenonville, in the company of his fair mistress Gabrielle
d'Estree. The tower where they had lived, Gabrielle's Tower, was in
good condition; mementos of Gabrielle and King Henry were every-
where about the castle.
Gilberte sang:

"When the taste of victory palls
Henry Four, our noble King,
Safe within these castle walls
Dallies long and has his fling
With fair Lady Gabrielle -
Happy times has he and sport:
And remembering what they wrought,
Happy times have we as well."

Jean- Jacques made no comment Fernand was sad that his friend
Gilberte had failed to win the Master's approval.

Jean- Jacques now turned to Fernand and asked, "Do you play too,
monsieur?" Hesitantly Fernand replied that he had learned to play
the piano a little. He did not add that he would rather have learned
the violin but that for some reason the Marquis had been against it.
For a while Fernand had practiced in secret with his tutor, Monsieur
Gerber, an enthusiastic fiddler. But when his father discovered this
he had, for the sake of discipline, actually smashed the violin.

As if prompted by an impulse to justify himself, the Marquis now
told Jean-Jacques how he had brought Fernand up according to the
principles laid down in the Master's novel on education, Smile. To
keep the young Count in trim, he had made him take long walks and
swim in the lake even in winter. He had also taken care that his son
should be in touch with the people. Thus Fernand had played with
the peasant children of Ermenonville, had gone to school with them
and learned reading, writing, and arithmetic from the village school-
master Philippe Harlet. "Apart from that," he went on, "his education
in the arts and sciences has of course not been neglected. Our dear
and learned friend Monsieur Gerber has instructed him in the classics
and in morals. And in German too, of which he is a master, being
Alsatian." He bowed slightly in Monsieur Gerber's direction.

While Jean- Jacques had disliked the pertness of Mademoiselle de
Latour, his capricious nature was drawn toward Fernand as he stood

29

there shy and blushing while his father talked about him. "Then the
young Count is ten times more learned than an old man like me/' he
said jokingly. Stroking Lady's head while the dog stared at him with
her moist, faithful eyes, he turned to the Marquis. "And yet I would
like your permission to contribute to the young master's education
and in this way pay a part of my rent. I won't poach on your pre-
serves, Monsieur Gerber. But if the young man does not mind taking
the trouble of accompanying me on my walks now and again, I will
merely talk to him of this or that whatever happens to enter my
head/-
Highly pleased, the Marquis accepted the Master's offer with the
warmest expressions of gratitude. Fernand was overwhelmed. He was
only sorry that the Master had been so cool toward Gilberte. She
herself, however, seemed scarcely to mind.

From now on Jean-Jacques and Fernand took frequent walks to-
gether, accompanied by the setter Lady. Jean- Jacques did not sound
like a philosopher. But although he spoke of slight, ordinary matters,
everything he said struck Fernand as being significant.

With Fernand he explored the park and countryside around Ermen-
onville, in which there were an astonishing number of lovely secluded
spots. Fernand showed him the hidden clearing which he regarded
as his property. Jean-Jacques extolled its peace and isolation and re-
marked, without Fernandas having to point it out, "It should have a
magnificent echo, this clearing of yours." At once, like a small boy,
he tried it out "A thousand thanks, my dear FernandP he called into
the woods, and, "My dear Fernand!" the call came back. This was the
first time Jean-Jacques had called him by his first name, and Fernandas
face lit up. "I am happy, Monsieur Jean- Jacques I" he shouted into the
shadows. "Monsieur Jean- Jacques!" answered the forest

Jean-Jacques smiled kindly at Fernand. Then he stood up and
called in his deep voice, "Freedom and Equality!" "Freedom and
Equality!" shouted Fernand in the opposite direction, and now "Free-
dom and Equality!" reverberated from all sides. But this time the echo
was confused, distorted, and sinister, and they did not call again.

Jean- Jacques felt no suspicion toward young people. They were
still close to Nature; they understood him. In Fernandas company he
behaved with childlike gaiety. Indeed at times he appeared more
childlike than Fernand. And when the latter gathered chickweed, that
small reddish plant which was the favorite food of Jean-Jacques's
canary birds, then the bitter, disillusioned man who would accept

30

nothing from any grand gentleman thanked him with manifest
pleasure.

Jean- Jacques was fond of talking about the nature and habits of
plants, though he was never didactic about it. Botany was a delightful
science, and you could gather knowledge and experience while walk-
ing. He began a new herbarium, an album in which he pressed the
flowers that he found at Ermenonville. Fernand helped him press
them. Later, Jean-Jacques told him, he would only have to look at
these Tlora of Ermenonville' for wood and hill and valley to come to
life for him.

Then he would abruptly begin to speak of weighty matters of
the limits of state authority, of the innate rights of man, of a sensible,
natural order of society.

Friendship with the Master meant fulfillment and great happiness
to Fernand. Only one thing disturbed him. He did not dare to show
Gilberte the full extent of his happiness. How cruelly disappointed
she must be that Jean- Jacques rejected her. He tried to comfort her
with cautious phrases. But she was in no need of consolation. With
her big, strong hand she brushed aside the crotchety old man's whims.
"I am only interested in his books,'* she said. "I read the Nouvelle
Heloise and am grateful to him for that."

Besides, her thoughts were taken up with other matters. She was
leaving Latour for a while and going to Saint- Vigor, her grandfather's
beautiful country seat near Versailles. Monsieur Robinet had invited
a number of ladies and gentlemen to whom Gilberte was to be intro-
duced. He also intended to take her to Paris for a week or two.

Happy and excited, she told Fernand about the gowns that were
being made for her, and showed him the courtly gestures, the dance
steps, curtseys, and the thousand other arts she had to master.

Fernand had spent his early childhood with his father at the Lune-
ville court of Stanislas, the king of Poland, and even nowadays the
Girardins, father and son, frequently put in appearances at Paris and
Versailles. But Fernand was full of Jean-Jacques's libertarian ideals;
he lent himself with reluctance to the cumbersome, empty ceremo-
nials. To him the life at court and in the Paris salons, for all its wit
and dazzle, lacked depth in feeling, and he often jeered at it. He
praised Jean- Jacques for having refused, after the success of his opera,
The Village Prophet, to appear for an audience with Louis the Fif-
teenth although he knew that by so doing he was forfeiting an other-
wise certain annual pension.

31

Gilberte made no secret of the fact that she did not share Fernandas
distaste for the atmosphere of the Court and the Paris salons. She was
looking forward to Paris and Saint- Vigor. He was rather vexed that
she should not be more downcast over their impending separation.

She noticed this and made up her mind to do something to please
him.

He had told her that Jean-Jacques often sat by the lake beneath
the old willow tree, gazing across the island of tall poplars, musing
and meditating. From the thickly wooded island you could watch him
without being seen. Gilberte suggested to Fernand that they hide on
the island and make music, play Jean-Jacques's melodies, sing his
songs, while he sat beneath his willow tree.

And so they did. They played and sang Jean-Jacques's duets, and
other tunes; Gilberte sang that song of his which was heard all over
France in the Queen's chambers, in the seamstress's workshop, in
the peasant's barnyard:

"Little birds, so carefree in your love,
Pity me and cease your song.
The lover who gave me joy
Has sailed for a foreign land.
For New World treasures he forsook
His love, and death defied.
Why seeks he joys across the sea
That he here already has?"

They had feared that Jean-Jacques might be annoyed and leave;
it was never possible to predict how he would react to what one did
to please him. But he stayed; he listened.

Next time he visited the cMteau he described how he had heard
music from the island, and the singing of young voices. He could not
say whether it had been imagination or reality, but it had been beau-
tiful.

Fernand and Gilberte did not betray their secret. They held each
other's hands, smiling happily.

Two days later Gilberte left for Saint- Vigor.

32

Chapter 6 Mind and Heart

JEAN- JACQUES had reached the conclusion that Monsieur de Girar-
din honestly meant well by him; he went more and more often to
the chateau, two or three evenings a week.

He submitted with good grace when Girardin asked about the ulti-
mate meaning of certain passages in his books; he answered patiently
and often at some length. The Marquis had had Jean- Jacques's books
splendidly bound and interspersed with blank pages; on these blank
pages he entered Jean-Jacques's elucidations, adding each time in
delicate Greek characters: *autos epha the Master's own words.

Girardin spoke to Jean-Jacques occasionally of his own affairs.
One evening he indulged in a bitter outburst against the Prince de
Conde, to whom, as a prince of the blood, the Capitainerie Royale
had granted hunting rights over Girardin's estate. His peasants, he
recounted heatedly, were complaining about the monstrous havoc
wrought by the game. More than once peasants who had tried to
drive away the game animals had been shot at by the Prince's keep-
ers. He had always rebelled against such abuse of the royal privilege,
and he spoke of an incident in Fernandas childhood that still gave
him pleasure to remember.

One time, when the Prince gave notice that he was coming to
hunt, the Marquis went away in order not to have to greet him, and
left little Count Fernand, at that time twelve years old, to do the
honors. Fernand did not appear at the Prince's table until dessert,
and when the Prince offered him some choice fruit he answered,
"Thank you, monsieur, this is my home and I have already been
served."

Jean- Jacques was amused by the story. Courage of this kind, he
declared, was rarer than military bravery. Fernand blushed.

One evening, finding Jean-Jacques in a particularly expansive mood,
the Marquis asked, 'What happened to the 'Polish Constitution*
which you drew up for our friend Count WielhorsM? Why were only

33

fragments of it published?" Jean- Jacques's face grew dark. "The Count
is no friend of mine/' he said, and added, "Excerpts from the manu-
script were published prematurely in a distorted form; they brought
fresh persecution upon me. I do not know whether the Count was
to blame. In any case I forbade further publication/'

Jean-Jacques had brought his womenfolk with him, and while the
others sat in an embarrassed silence old Madame Levasseur applied
herself to her food with an air of indifference. She knew quite well
wht they were talking about. It was she who had loaned out a
copy of the manuscript, and been well paid for it. The Polish gentle-
man had known nothing about the matter. Probably her fool of a
son-in-law was exaggerating the consequences.

Meanwhile Jean-Jacques went on grimly, "In any case Wielhorski
and his adherents would not have been able to put my constitution
into effect. To translate my ideas into reality is a hard problem, for
the moment insoluble. I have worked in vain. My 'Corsican Con-
stitution 7 was also useless labor. The time hasn't come yet," he re-
peated, tight-lipped, "to turn my political concepts into practical
laws. You can't produce democracy by edict."

Monsieur Gerber was shy and seldom spoke at table. But today
he felt he had to do so. "Permit me," he said contentiously, "to
defend Jean-Jacques against Jean-Jacques. Thousands have learned
from your Constitution for the Republic of Corsica that the general
principles of the Social Contract can be converted into unequivocal
directives for a particular situation."

*Yes, and we all know what has become of the Republic of Cor-
sica," Jean-Jacques returned bitterly. "And of my constitution/'

Monsieur Gerber grew heated. "The constitution which Plato drew
up for Syracuse/* he said, "was never put into practice either. Yet
Plato's Republic is still alive and effective today. The Americans
have realized that your Social Contract is something more than a
beautiful Utopia, and are on the point of making it a reality. The
time will come when France too when all of Europe will see you
as its Lycurgus/*

Fernand sprang to his feet. "That time will come!' 7 lie cried. "I
know it will come/' Jean- Jacques rose and gave him his hand. "You
are right, Fernand/' he said. "Men will find their way back to Nature
and to virtue. But the way will be long and fraught with suffering."
Though he spoke tonelessly, his deep voice, old, sad, yet confident,
went straight to Fernand's heart.

34

Since Gilberte's departure he had spent more and more time with
the Master. He had so far overcome his natural shyness as to talk
to him about Gilberte. "And it is you, Monsieur Jean-Jacques," he
said impetuously, "whom I have to thank for it all. Since reading the
Nouvelle Heloise I have known how love can be in tune with Nature
and God and how glorious life!"

Jean-Jacques's sad, wise, penetrating gaze lingered on him. "You
have happy eyes, Fernand," he told him. "You see this girl of yours
with happy eyes. Long may you continue to do so. I too was once
very happy. But a susceptible heart is one of heaven's most fatal
gifts. Its possessor is the plaything of the air and elements; sun and
mist determine his fate; he is sad or happy as the wind blows."

Their understanding of each other deepened. Often they sat
opposite each other in the woods, the old philosopher with the vital
face, the sensitive mouth, the strong, bold nose and the marvelously
intelligent brow; the young man with the burning eyes. At their feet
crouched Lady, the setter. They felt a bond between them as they
talked, and even more when they were silent.

On the other hand, there were times when Fernand thought he
sensed that Jean- Jacques wished to be alone. Then he would slip-
quietly away.

Once, while they were resting in the open and the Master was*
obviously talking to himself and not to him, he began to move off.
But Jean-Jacques looked up. "Why do you run away, Fernand?" he
asked, and then went on talking of the most intimate matters ii>
Fernand's presence.

Thereafter this happened often. Jean-Jacques would meditate
aloud, and seemed to like Fernand's being there. He might begin by
complaining that he spoke the simplest language in the world the
language of the heart and yet this was the language many refused
to understand. Misunderstandings had turned friends into foes,
brought persecution upon him such as no man had suffered before.
"My persecutors have enemies too," he said, "but they need enemies,
need persecution; they have a thick skin and pressure only makes
it thicker and more calloused. My skin is thinner, easily hurt. They
do not realize, my erstwhile friends, what they are doing to me. They
mock me, they torment me, and when I cry out they say, 'How sen-
sitive he is.' And I loved them; I was truly their friend; I feel their
loss. Oh, those whom life takes away give me more pain than those
who are taken away by death."

35

Fernand sat quite still and listened. Even though he had been
asked to stay, he felt like a spy.

His heart was full of sympathy for the Master. He felt he must
give him some token of his love. And one day the shy young man
plucked up courage. Stammering a reverent lie, he explained to
Jean-Jacques that the dog, Lady, had grown very fond of him and
now looked on him as her master. He begged Jean- Jacques to take
the bitch over into the pavilion. He needed her, needed a watchdog
against his many enemies.

Touched, Jean- Jacques smilingly accepted the gift.

Chapter 7 Nicolas and Tberese

ONE EVENING when Jean-Jacques was up at the chateau and the
women were sitting alone in the pavilion, there came a knock on
the door. The women were surprised. Nicolas entered.

He bowed low, conveying a hint of mockery by the extravagance
of the gesture. Monsieur le Marquis, he declared with a polite grin,
had ordered him to do all in his power to serve the ladies. But since
he was not allowed to show himself in front of Monsieur Rousseau,
he had had no chance to find out whether the ladies had any special
wishes. To put this right, he was taking it upon himself to come
while the philosopher was at the castle.

The women were sitting at the table; the meat was steaming in the
dish. Madame Levasseur looked at Nicolas with her small, hard
eyes. "I can't think of anything we need," she said. But Th6r^se
replied in her languid voice, 'It is kind of you to ask, Monsieur
Nicolas."

The old woman sat deliberately silent, her manner challenging
Nicolas to remove himself. He stayed. Impudently he looked
Th6rse up and down with arrogant appreciation. Th6rse returned
his look. "Won't you eat with us, Monsieur Nicolas?" she invited
him. Madame Levasseur said sourly, "J ean -J a cques may come back

36

at any moment." Not taking his eyes off Therese, Nicolas said in
his strong English accent, "The respected author and philosopher,
Monsieur Rousseau, will hardly be back as soon as all that. Dinner
at the castle lags because the conversation is so interesting, and
even when it's over Monsieur le Marquis usually detains Monsieur
the Philosopher." "I absolutely will not have my son-in-law see you
here/' said Madame Levasseur in her toneless, hoarse voice. She
emphasized the "you/* Apparently amused, Nicolas bowed and
said, "My dear ladies, that is just why I picked this time to pay you
my respects." Again he looked at Therese. As if drawn and com-
pelled, she said, "Won't you please sit down, Monsieur Nicolas," and
she stood up to fetch him a plate and silverware. Nicolas replied,
"Since you are so kind as to ask me, madame, it would be impolite
to refuse."

Madame Levasseur maintained a hostile silence. This fellow was
no dish for her. But Nicolas was a deft talker and soon overcame
the awkwardness. He knew the world, he remarked; he had been
head trainer for Mr. Tattersall in London, the best judge of horse-
flesh in the world. Grand gentlemen were in and out of the place
all the time, and it had cost the Marquis a good deal of money and
persuasion to lure him away from such a first-rate position. He some-
times regretted having exchanged that marvelous great city of
London for the dullness and loneliness of Ermenonville. But now
that he had had the good fortune to meet the Ladies Rousseau, he
no longer regretted it. He raised his glass to Madame Levasseur,
then with a meaningful glance at Therese said, ""Your health!" and
drank it off. He hadn't intended to talk about himself, he went on
fluently, but to express his surprise at Monsieur Rousseau's queer-
ness. For all his knowledge of the world, he had never come
across such a man before. London had its Doctor Johnson, a famous
philosopher too, hut fond of good living and a man who knew how
to get money out of people. And here Monsieur Rousseau, an even
more famous philosopher, made not a sou or a penny out of his fame.
He, Nicolas, was always eager to learn, and would be grateful if the
ladies could explain this to him.

Madame Levasseur's mistrust increased. The fellow had designs on
Therese, that much was obvious. He'd caught on right away that
she had taken a fancy to him. The way the silly goose was angling
for him with her eyes, he couldn't have missed it. This fellow Nicolas
knew a thing or two about women, and obviously he didn't need her

37

plump and aging daughter Therese. The man smelled money in Jean-
Jacques's philosophy and wanted to worm his way into the family.
Madame Levasseur would have to put a spoke in his wheel. She
intended to keep her daughter under her thumb; she was not going
to let any beggarly Englishman put his dirty fingers in her pie.

Therese rose slowly and began to clear the table. Nicolas said,
"Now I must be going or Monsieur really might come back. Too
bad I really would have liked to hear about his philosophy. We
haven't discussed the ladies' special wishes either. Perhaps I may
make a suggestion?'' He turned to Therese: "Suppose you walk part
of the way through the park with me, so that Monsieur Rousseau
doesn't surprise us here. Then we can talk it all over, the philosophy
and the special wishes." Therese stood uncertainly. Madame Le-
vasseur said, low and sharp, "Am I supposed to wash the dishes by
myself?" Her mother's opposition irritated Therese. "Ill be right
back," she said, and went out with Nicolas.

Outside it was still, and very dark. The paths were narrow; to
walk side by side, their bodies had to touch. They plunged into a
little wood. Nicolas led her with confidence; he obviously felt at
home in the dark. They could hear each other's breathing. Twigs
cracked under their feet. "You don't have an easy life," Nicolas said
at last, "with your Mama and Monsieur the Philosopher. Such
a charming lady deserves a much better life, if you ask me." He sub-
dued his squeaky voice, but it still sounded almost shrill in the silence
of the night. He put his arm around her waist to guide her. She was
aware of the strong masculine smell emanating from him. "When I
say *a charming lady' I know what I'm talking about. I've had ex-
perience." With an abrupt, vigorous movement he pulled her to him
and impudently gave her a long, deep kiss on the mouth. Then,
releasing her, he said politely, "Thank you, madame," and resumed
the conversation. "No, you certainly don't have an easy time of it.
Monsieur Rousseau may know philosophy, but he doesn't know life.
Believe me. Otherwise he'd make hay while the sun shines. All the
aristocrats are crazy about him today, but who can tell what tomor-
row may bring? The high and mighty change faster than the moon.
I know the world, I've had experiences of my own. One day it will
be too late and Monsieur the Philosopher will be stuck, and you with
him."

Thrse defended Jean-Jacques. "My husband doesn't need your
aristocrats," she said with unwonted belligerence. "The publishers

38

offer my husband any amount of money for his philosophical works,
and there are whole piles of writings. But he won't send them out.
He doesn't want the money." Nicolas whistled through his teeth.
"I understand, madame," he said. "A life of poverty is part of his
philosophy." Rather helplessly, without much conviction, Therese
said, "He is a great man. Everyone says so." It sounded like an apol-
ogy. "I daresay he is," said Nicolas condescendingly. "I'm no judge
of that. But I do know that he is a very impractical man, totally
inexperienced. Let's be frank about it; he's a fool." Therese made an
attempt to explain: "It has to do with his philosophy. He says, 'sim-
plicity,' he says, *back to Nature,' and won't take money." "All very
well," Nicolas answered, <c but why doesn't he go back to this Nature
of his alone? Why does he have to take you with him? Bare Nature
isn't what you're destined for, madame. I saw that the moment I laid
eyes on you."

Therese was silent. Glibly, Nicolas went on, "You may say, *What
business is that of yours, Monsieur Nicolas?' and in a way you would
be right. If Monsieur Rousseau is impractical and you have no ob-
jection, madame, then it should not matter at all to me. But it does
matter to me. It makes my blood boil. Not for his sake, but for yours,
madame. Because I'm interested in you, as I dare say you've already
noticed/' And he kissed her even more violently than before.

Breathing hard, Therese straightened her bonnet and neckerchief
and said, "I must go back, or Jean-Jacques will really come and
wonder where I am," "What a pity," said Nicolas gallantly. "I could
have gone on talking with you all night, madame. But if there's no
help for it " and he escorted her back.

"And we still haven't discussed your special wishes or Monsieur
Rousseau's possible needs," he said as the lighted windows of the
house came in view. "We must meet again soon. The only trouble is
that your Mama doesn't approve of me, and I don't think she'll be
overjoyed to see me again. May I suggest that we talk things over
without your Mama, next time Monsieur dines at the chateau? May
I expect you here, in the dark?" She made no reply. He kissed her
a last time, feeling her up and down. Her body yielded, and he
knew she would come.

Whistling softly, he went back to the servants' quarters. He was
in good humor. She was a handful all right, and she was in the bag.
And with her there'd be some cash, too. The dear old girl had let
that out, in the simplicity of her heart. Back to Nature! He'd get his

39

hands on the jack. Let that mucking mother of hers, that fat little
old bag, bust a gut with fury.

Hitherto his life in France had been a disappointment to him. He
had had dreams of starting up a business in Paris like TattersalFs
in London, a riding school with a bit of horse-trading and betting on
the side. But you needed capital to get started that was the hitch.
This Madame Rousseau might be just the bootstrap he needed to
pull himself up by. Perhaps after all, Fortune was fond of choosing
roundabout ways the scribblings of that idiot would be turned
into good horses yet. At any rate, one thing was certain, the philoso-
pher's wife had a nice backside.

While the Marquis's servant pursued his dream, Therese in the
pavilion washed the dishes while Madame Levasseur made quite
clear what she thought of her daughter's association with Monsieur
Nicolas.

Madame Levasseur had no objection to Th6rese's carrying on with
a man now and then. Jean-Jacques was old, and even in his best
years he had never been man enough to satisfy a full-blooded fe-
male. Besides Ther&se had her work cut out for her, taking care of
him. Not every woman would have looked after that cripple with
such devotion during his attacks; it was a messy business. And not
every girl would have put up with his quirks so patiently. So that
before God and man Th6r&se certainly had a right to a bit of amuse-
ment in her limited spare time. But she might be more choosy about
her suitors. "You might give Jean-Jacques a finer collaborator," she
declared. "This Englishman isn't the right man at all. He caught a
whiff of the cash to be got out of this philosopher of yours, and that's
all he's after. These pug-nosed, pale-eyed types I never could
stomach them, Or do you think he wants you for your soft eyes and
fat behind? He can get them younger and thinner whenever he
wants. If youVe got to roll in the hay, you slut, kindly pick someone
who isn't out to fleece you and your old mother."

Th6r&se washed the dishes and said nothing.

40

Chapter 8 Fernandas Entanglements

BY TACIT CONSENT, Jean-Jacques and Fernand concealed their friend-
ship. When Jean- Jacques was visiting the cMteau he addressed him-
self to Girardin and Monsieur Gerber, seldom to Fernand.

It struck Fernand that the Jean-Jacques who conversed with his
father and Monsieur Gerber was a different person from the Jean-
Jacques whom he knew on his walks. Exchanging question and
answer with his father and Monsieur Gerber, he was no longer the
unconstrained, youthful, almost lighthearted man who roamed in the
woods with Fernand. Apparently people had no fixed outline; they
changed with the company they kept.

At the cMteau Jean- Jacques sometimes became a complete stranger
to Fernand. On one occasion Fernand left rather than let this alien
Jean-Jacques spoil the picture he carried in his heart.

He wandered through the darkened gardens, musing on his Jean-
Jacques. Would he ever succeed in making Jean- Jacques see Gilberte
as he saw her?

Voices startled him out of his reverie. He heard whispering,
breathing, sighing, the broken moans and murmurs of a couple
making love. He stood still, attracted and repelled. He had had his
own early experiences wild, brief, ugly, sad, disappointing inci-
dents, one here in the country, one in Paris. He hated to think of
them, and ever since he realized how deeply he loved Gilberte he
had banished all memory of them to a remote corner of his
consciousness.

He wanted to hurry away; it was indecent, beneath him, to listen
to what was going on here. No doubt a manservant and a maid in
their lust. The rut of animals was better than the rut of humans.
Animals knew nothing else but rut; when human beings abandoned
to lust what they ought to keep for love, they felt a rage of shame,

He turned away, took a few steps to put himself beyond the range
of this moaning and whispering.

Then he recognized the voices.

41

He recognized the man's voice first; there was only one person
who squeaked like that that odious groom Nicolas. In the same
instant, shocked to the depths of his being, he recognized the woman's
voice. That throaty, drawling voice was also unmistakable. It be-
longed to ... Even in his thoughts he shied away from the name.
No, he would not listen. Now it would be a sin to listen. He had to
go away.

He stayed. Listened.

Listened with turmoil in his heart. This, then, was the woman,
depraved, half animal, whom France's most sublime philosopher had
chosen for his companion. There he sat in the dining hall, blithely
conversing with Father and Monsieur Gerber, and here lay his wife,
the woman who had shared decades of his life with him, lying with
the scum of the earth, with a clod into whom the Creator had blown
only the faintest breath of spirit. There they were, moaning in their
bestial lust, wallowing in the mud. And this was being done to the
greatest, the wisest of mortals 1 Was Jean- Jacques so blind? Was the
man who had seen more deeply into the world than anyone else
blind within his immediate orbit, his own four walls, his marriage
bed? Fernand was filled with boundless astonishment, with fear of
life, with deepest compassion for the great childlike man who had
tied his life to this lascivious bitch.

He walked in the darkness for a long time, his thoughts in turmoil.
What was he to do? How would he face Jean-Jacques? Ought he not
to inform him of his dreadful discovery?

Next day he avoided Jean-Jacques. He wanted to thresh things
out with himself first. Perhaps he had been mistaken after all; per-
haps emotional confusion had forced him to put a false interpretation
on what he heard and how horrible a mistake would be in such
a momentous affair. He must have been mistaken. He had been mis-
taken. The English groom had been amusing himself with one of the
maids. He should have looked the other way and passed on. Forget
the matter.

But he could not get out of his head the low, confused, vulgar,
disturbing sounds that had reached him from the shrubbery. And
it had been Jean-Jacques's wife! There was only one such voice.

He must hear that voice again, must put the thing to the test.

He devised a pretext for seeing her and went to the pavilion at
a time when he knew Jean-Jacques was out walking.

42

The women were surprised. He stood irresolutely, stammered
something about wishing to ask Jean-Jacques to copy the music he
had brought as soon as possible, even if it meant leaving other work
aside; he needed it as a surprise for his father. Madame Levasseur
took the music from him and said she would give Jean-Jacques the
message.

At this point Fernand should by rights have gone. He stayed. His
empty hands dangled awkwardly. He watched Therese, surrepti-
tiously, so he thought. She regarded him calmly, shamelessly, with
animal placidity. She had immediately sensed that he had come
because of her.

There was a silence. The canary birds trilled in their cage.
Neither of the women came to his aid; they waited for him to speak.
He made a stab at it. "I wanted to ask/' he began, "whether Monsieur
Jean-Jacques feels at home here, whether you yourselves feel at
home." His tongue tripped him up in his effort to overcome his em-
barrassment. "You surely know, mesdames," he went on, "that Mon-
sieur Jean- Jacques has often allowed me to accompany him. I flatter
myself that I might even say I have his friendship. So you will under-
stand that it means a great deal to me to know that Monsieur Jean-
Jacques feels at home here in our Errnenonville. I hope you all feel
at home here," he added slyly and politely. He thought to himself
1 was mistaken after all. She is so calm. Of course she has no idea
that I know her hideous secret. The way she looks at me! No, I was
not mistaken. She would drive any man crazy; you can feel it. And
yet she isn't even beautiful. And she's stupid and common. Scum. Is
she never going to take her eyes off me?'

Madame Levasseur meanwhile was reflecting that she would never
understand what it was that men found attractive in a woman. Her
Therese was certainly not beautiful; she had a fat, expressionless
face and was as lazy and stupid as a herd of cows; yet men swarmed
about her like flies around a carcass. Here was this young count,
heir to a noble house, stammering and stuttering and squirming with
lust. Actually, of course, it was a blessing. Perhaps he could be
played off against that good-for-nothing lout and interloper, that
manure-prince Nicolas. This innocent bumpkin certainly would
not try to steer Jean-Jacques's money into his own pocket and do her
out of her share.

"We are grateful to you for your friendly interest, sir," she said.
"We're getting on quite well here, and my son-in-law likes it. I don't

43

imagine well be in a hurry to go back to Paris. If Jean- Jacques gets
enough work" and she nodded towards the music "we shall find
our bread and butter here too/* Therese looked steadily at Fernand.
It gave her a lift to have someone half her own age fall for her a
good-looking boy, not a worn-out philosopher. And a count at that.
"Thank you very much. Count Fernand/* she said at last, "we like
it here very much." It sounded as if she had said, "I like you very
much."

For a long time Fernand drifted around the gardens, oppressed
by gloomy thoughts and reveries. This woman Therese was as full
of mysteries as Nature herself. When you looked into her eyes you
plumbed the primal depths of life. That was probably why Jean-
Jacques had attached himself to her. He had taken Nature itself to
wife Nature, which was at once good and evil

In the days that followed, Fernand went on avoiding the Master
and lurked about the pavilion when he knew Jean-Jacques was not
there. It was base of him, wicked, a betrayal of the Master. But did
not the Master himself teach that people should learn more from
Nature than from books? Fernand had to get to the bottom of the
sinister mystery. He had to find out what linked Jean-Jacques to
this woman, and what bound her to that animal Nicolas.

After a short while, though it seemed to him endless, he met
Therese. She was going to pass by without stopping; she seemed in
a hurry. He plucked up courage and asked whether he might discuss
Jean-Jacques's affairs with her. She considered, then answered
without embarrassment that Jean- Jacques went to bed early, even
before dark. She could see Fernand that evening; he might expect
her sometime after nine o'clock by the bridge. "A walk is a good
thing, these warm nights/' she said. She spoke clumsily, groping for
every word.

It was a clear night, but even so the paths through woods and thick-
ets were shadowed and dark. They spoke little. They had to watch
where they were going, and now and again they called to each other
to give warning of a stone or a protruding branch. When they spoke
it was with bated breath and subdued voices. There was secrecy in
their movements, an air of things forbidden,

Fernand was extremely ill at ease. Here he was roaming the woods
with this woman, just like that beast Nicolas. What would Jean-
Jacques think if he should see him? And Gilberte? She would shrink
from him forever. Yet both would be unfair to him. His purpose here

44

was not that of Nicolas, but that o a philosopher.

They came to the willow tree by the lake where Jean- Jacques
liked to sit. Therese pushed the mass of twigs aside and sank down
on the grassy bank with a faint sigh of relief . With a gesture she in-
vited him to sit down beside her. The bank was narrow, their
bodies touched as they sat.

Opposite was the island with the tall poplars in whose shadow he
and Gilberte had sung for Jean-Jacques. It lay bathed in silvery-
green moonlight And here he sat with Jean-Jacques's wife, prying
and spying on them both. Yet the sense of something forbidden was
not unpleasant; it excited him.

Nevertheless, he involuntarily moved a little away from Therese.
She gave a barely perceptible start of surprise. "You wanted to ask
me something about Jean-Jacques, Count Fernand, didn't you?" she
said in her husky voice. He was grateful to her for breaking the
oppressive silence. "Yes, madame," he hastened to answer, "it would
be very kind of you to tell me." "What do you want me to tell?" she
asked after a pause. He reflected. Then he asked, "What does Jean-
Jacques do when he is at home? Does he work?" Faintly surprised,
she answered, "Of course, monsieur. He potters about with those
pressed plants of his. And he often copies music." Patiently Fernand
explained, "I didn't mean that. I mean, is he writing anything new?"
"He sometimes writes too," Therese replied with amiable indif-
ference. "A few days ago he read some of it aloud to me. He often
reads aloud to me. I don't understand all of it. I don't catch on very
fast, you know. All that scribbling isn't for me, anyhow. It isn't for
the living. It's for the ones to come, he says."

*I ought not to be listening to this,' Fernand thought. It's indecent
She betrays him out of stupidity, in all innocence; but I know what
I'm doing.' "Isn't it getting late for you, madame?" he said aloud.
"Wouldn't you like to go back?" "Not yet/' she replied easily. "Jean-
Jacques is in bed, and he's a good, sound sleeper."

He seized on her words, grateful to have found a harmless topic
of conversation. "So his health has been good here in Ermenonville?"
he asked. "Yes," she answered, Tie is well at the moment, thank God.
But with him you can expect an attack anytime. You know, this
frightful bladder trouble, this urethritis." She stressed every syllable
of the medical term. "And it always comes just at the worst possible
moment. That time when his opera was performed at court and he
should have had the audience and received a pension, he simply

45

couldn't appear before the King. You know, when he has these at-
tacks, he has to leave the room all the time, and that wouldn't do
with the King and all those fine ladies and gentlemen. When he has
an attack he won't have anyone with him but me. And looking after
him is no simple matter, I can tell you, I have to insert the catheter,
and not hurt him; he's always sorry for himself, and it is very pain-
ful And of course he's irritable and impatient. But I'm used to it.
I'm not complaining."

So it was not the pride of a free citizen that had prompted Jean-
Jacques to decline the audience, but an affliction of the bladder!
Fernand compressed his lips. He would not have it so; it was im-
possible. That was her simple-minded explanation for it but it was
not so. 1 mustn't stay here any longer/ he thought to himself over
and over again. 1 am spying on Jean-Jacques in his nakedness. I arn
sounding out this woman who is as innocent and irresponsible as
Nature itself. It's unethical. It is stealing fruit from the tree of knowl-
edge. I shall no longer be able to face Gilberte. I mustn't go on
listening/

But Th6rese sat there quietly, obviously wanting to stay, and he
could not think how to start leaving. He asked, "You have been
married to Jean-Jacques for more than twenty years, haven't you,
madame?" "Married only ten years," she replied without embarrass-
ment. "But I've lived with him since I was eighteen. Ever since he
took me away from that awful hotel. The others kept pestering me
and he protected me. He was very good to me. But IVe always taken
very good care of him, too. Then all of a sudden he took it into his
head to marry me. It was a lovely wedding. We were in Bourgoin
at the time, at the Golden Fountain Inn. He invited two friends,
artillery officers. He took a private room and made a gorgeous speech,
and then he said, 'And so I declare before Nature that I take this
woman to be my wife.* We were all very moved, and then we had
a marvelous meal and we all sang." She told her story slowly, hesi-
tantly, not because she was embarrassed but because she had to pick
her words.

Then she broke off with coarse archness. "But I'm talking about
myself. You're interested in Jean-Jacques, not me." Blushing furi-
ously though of course she could not see that in the dark Fer-
nand clumsily assured her that he was interested in anything about
Jean-Jacques, and especially in her, his faithful companion. "Com-
panion/' Th6r&se repeated slowly, "that's a nice word. I must remem-

46

ber it. And that's really how it has been. We've had a lot of good
times together in all these long years, and a lot o bad ones too, I
must say. It's a relief to have a friend you can say these things to.
Everyone else is always envious of me because I'm the wife of the
great Jean-Jacques, and they say nasty things about me. But it isn't
easy for a simple girl to be the wife of a philosopher. Companion.
He's a saint, but he's difficult. He's ill, and difficult to look after, and
he's irritable and impatient. I have plenty of worry and hard work."

She shifted a little closer to Fernand, held out her hand to him.
Did he take her hand or she his? It was a large, fleshy hand, some-
what damp. He pressed it. Then, without withdrawing her hand,
she slowly stood up. He also rose, abruptly, acutely embarrassed,
but he did not let go of her hand.

They returned in silence. He took her right up to the house.

When Therese next met Nicolas she was immeasurably tender.
Being a cynic, he saw through it at once. "Aha," he observed, "You've
been carrying on with our little count, that lanky bean pole/' With
unwonted spirit Therese replied, '"You're mad. Count Femand is shy,
and a little boy. He talks about nothing but philosophy." "So you
think you can teach me something about human nature?" exclaimed
Nicolas. "They talk about the top story when they really mean the
ground floor. And don't get the idea that I'm jealous. I know just
how good I am. I won't lose by the comparison."

Chapter 9 A Sergeant Takes A Hand

FROM THE little town of Dammartin, Nicolas brought back a letter
which had been handed to him there at the Two Angels' Inn, to be
delivered to Madame Levasseur in person. "A love letter for your
Mama," he told Therese with a grin.

The old lady, usually so cheerful and even-tempered, became
pale and speechless as soon as she recognized the handwriting. The
letter was from Francois, from Sergeant Frangois Renoux, her son!

47

So he was back from America! When the King had recently con-
cluded his military alliance she had given up hope of ever seeing her
beloved Frangois again.

She held the letter unopened in her aged, trembling hands, and a
swift succession of images, the vicissitudes of a long, hard life, reeled
through her mind. There were the brief, happy years with her first
husband, Sergeant Renoux. A little irresponsible, her lamented Po-
paule, all soldier, not exactly bright, but what a man! A real figure of
a man! And how she had loved him, even though he had given her
so much to worry about, and kept her frantic trying to lay hands on
the money he was always asking for. But then he would tell of his
campaigns, of the Polish War of Succession, the battles of Philipps-
burg and Milan, and her heart would leap up when he talked so
mightily and smiled like a happy little boy, all the time patting her
bottom.

And their son, Frangois, had taken after him. He too was a soldier
from head to foot, he had the same booming laugh and the same gay,
generous heart. And when he came with that shamefaced and mis-
chievous look of his and asked for money, always more money, she
couldn't refuse him any more than she had been able to refuse his
father in his time. It was true that the boy always seemed to be
fighting in lost battles, but it certainly wasn't his fault that that dam-
nable, godless Prussian Frederick had won at Rossbach and Krefeld.
He was a brave boy he'd proved that by going across the sea to
the Americans, to the Boston people, the Liberty fellows, to set up
a new society over there. And now, with the alliance concluded, they
didn't need him any more. So she could have him again!

She tore open the letter. Yes, he was at the inn in Dammartin. And
wasn't he wonderful no sooner was he back from the red Indians
than he came to embrace his mother at the first opportunity! What
a pity he couldn't have come straight to Ermenonville; but her fool
of a son-in-law got hopping mad if he so much as laid eyes on Fran-
gois. One time when Jean-Jacques was away he had borrowed a few
shirts from his drawer, and Jean- Jacques had raised the roof about
this 'theft.' He could forgive Fran$ois the thousands of livres he had
bilked him of , he raged, but to have stolen his India silk shirts, one
of his few joys in life, was an act of such abysmal villainy that he
never wanted to set eyes on the fellow again. Alas, now she could
only embrace her beloved son behind the back of that idiot Jean-
Jacques.

48

They met in the pavilion while Jean-Jacques was dining at the
chateau. Therese left them to themselves, and Madame Levasseur
experienced a joy such as God reserves only for His saints.

She could not take her eyes off her son. And indeed he was some-
thing to feast the eyes upon, was Sergeant Renoux. Madame Levas-
seur might well be proud that such a little woman as she was the
mother of so handsome and imposing a son. So he had been fighting
in distant lands, among the savages, in the virgin forests of America,
by the side of the Boston people, for tea and freedom. But unfortu-
nately, as the facts trickled out of his colorful narrative, even there
he had not had any luck. Of course he had been honored, because
he had naturally not withheld the fact that he was the brother-in-
law of Jean- Jacques, who, you might say, was the inventor of free-
dom. But apart from glory the place didii't have very much to offer.
"It's only a country for a Jean- Jacques/' he declared bitterly. "Nothing
but Nature and virtue, and no money at all/' And so, after the pact,
when they no longer needed him, he had come home. He had fought
in seven battles, and when he stepped onto dry land at Le Havre
and counted his booty it had amounted to twelve livres and three
sous. "In fact/' he boomed, "America was a disappointment The Lib-
erty fellows are broke. Of course I didn't go over there for the sake
of money; but for seven battles and all that blood and sweat, twelve
livres and three sous is too cheap for my father's son. For my mother's
son," he amended with a laugh, slapping her heartily on the back.

Madame Levasseur dissolved in the bliss of this hour. For, happily,
he really was his father's son, and she had loved his father, and that
was why the son had turned out so well. Her second husband, Mon-
sieur Levasseur, the mint inspector from Orleans, had been a sad,
querulous little man whom she had taken for reasons of prudence.
Her heart and her loins had not responded to him, and that was
why all that had come of it was this dull, heavy, stupid Therese.
But she'd been the one to have the luck, while her glorious son, now
close on fifty, hadn't caught fortune by the forelock, even in the
wilds of America.

"At least I've brought a good idea back home with me," Sergeant
Francois went on. "For when our good King Louis made he alliance
with the Liberty fellows, I spent a long, miserable, sad night in the
bivouac turning the whole military and political situation over and
over in my head. I thought of our good King Louis and I said to my-
self: He won't go for it, he doesn't like these Liberty fellows - you

49

can't blame him for that from his point of view and he doesn't
want to send them any soldiers, But, I said to myself, in the end
hell have to. Because these Boston people won't pull it off by them-
selves. If a French army doesn't take a hand, the English will win,
and that's something our Most Christian King can't allow either. So
in the end, let me tell you, Mama, hell have to swallow the bitter
pill, even if it does make him screw up his face."

He drank some of Jean-Jacques's wine. "Then what?" asked Ma-
dame Levasseur. "So they'll need soldiers, I told myself," the Sergeant
went on, "and since there aren't enough recruits as it is, there won't
be nearly enough in the future. Mark my words, drumming up re-
cruits is an even more profitable business than it used to be. But it's
a tough business. You have to be born and raised to it to be a good
recruiter. A recruiting officer needs a damn good line of talk and
experience in war. So it follows that they'll want you, Sergeant Re-
noux ? I told myself. You, with your well-known gift of gab and your
military experience. You can do yourself and the cause of freedom
far more good in Paris than in the forests of America. So here I am/"

Madame Levasseur foresaw that her son Francois's good idea
would cost her money in the end. But this anxiety was submerged
in her tremendous joy at having him back. This much was sure: he
was in France, and the war was over there in America. "So you
won't be in any hurry to go back to the wars, my boy," she said with
relief.

He had only stayed two days in Paris, he explained, for he had
longed to see his beloved Mama again at the first possible moment
But he had already had a chance to speak to his friend Colonel de
la Rocque. The latter knew his Sergeant Renoux and had already
promised him monopoly rights as recruiting sergeant for his regiment.
If he really got them and could make his speeches in the splendid
uniform of the Royal Racoleurs, with a regimental band and stand-
ards, then as his Mama could imagine he would rally civilians
to the colors by the score. There was only one hitch: the War Minis-
try required all recruiting sergeants to put up a bond of a hundred
louis d'or. He hoped Mama would be able to lend him the money;
if she could not he was in danger of missing a sure thing, the chance
of a lifetime.

Madame Levasseur had heard of these 'sure things* before, but
nothing ever came of them and in her heart of hearts she was con-
vinced that nothing would come of this one either. But she pic-

50

tiired her Frangois in the glittering Racoleur uniform, with the plume
on the helmet rising proudly in four spirals, addressing the crowd in
his powerful voice, winning over the waverers with his jokes and
bullying, and letting the gold pieces glide through his fingers. She
could not leave him in the lurch, now that he had returned from
America. She would get the money for him, she promised, but he
would have to stay a few days in Dammartin while she was raising
it. He answered good-naturedly that, of course, he'd realized a
hundred louis weren't chicken-shit and Mama couldn't pull them out
of her stocking right off; but her promise was enough for him. And he
agreed to await a message from her at the Two Angels* Inn.

When she was alone, Madame Levasseur looked lorip|jgry and
with helpless resentment at Jean-Jacques's desk and chest. There lay
the fool's writings, and they were ready cash if only he were willing.
Bassompierre, the publisher in Geneva, and Michel Rey in Amster-
dam were bidding thousands for them. But as Madame Levasseur
knew from experience trickery was useless; there was nothing to
be done with the papers. The publishers were shrewd businessmen
and not satisfied with artful letters and dubious signatures; they
wanted written declarations in Jean- Jacques's own hand.

Madame Levasseur was breathing so hard that the down on her
upper lip stirred gently. Come what might, she was not going to let
her beloved son's projects be frustrated by Jean- Jacques's crazy ideas.
She would think of something; she must think of something.

Next day she did think of something.

She went to Monsieur Girardin. "It goes against the grain, sir, for
me to come to you begging," she said. "My late-lamented first hus-
band, Sergeant Renoux of the King's Dragoons, had his pride. He
liked to conquer and to live on his share of the booty, not on charity.
But to speak straight from the shoulder, sir, as becomes the wife of
an old soldier: I need money." And she told him about her son's pro-
ject. Her maternal heart ran away with her; her cold, toneless voice
became vibrant. As to her son's plan, it was not just a matter of ordi-
nary recruiting, she declared. He had fought for freedom at the side
of the Boston people, in the virgin forests of the red Indians, and
with his own eyes and at the risk of his life had seen that her son-in-
law's philosophy, Jean- Jacques's ideas on freedom and Nature, could
only be put into effect if the King were to send a powerful army
across the seas. Her son wanted to do his bit to help this undertaking.
That was why he needed the money.

51

Girardin realized that she intended to touch him for a considerable
sum. He drew himself up and pointed his walking stick at her. "Haw
much money do you want, inadame?" he asked with military brev-
ity.

"A hundred louis d'or," answered Madame Levasseur with equal
brevity.

This was an outrageous request, and Girardin's face showed quite
plainly that he regarded it as such. "I don't want the money as a gift,"
Madame Levasseur hastened to explain. "We have good security to
offer. There are works of Jean- Jacques which are not to be published
until after his death. They are here, in our care, big bundles of manu-
script. I am asking you to lend me the hundred louis against these
papers."

The Marquis attempted a tactical maneuver. He was ready to
lend the money, he declared, but not behind the Master's back.
Madame would permit him to ask for Jean- Jacques's consent. "Go
ahead and ask, monsieur," answered Madame Levasseur coldly. "Do,
by all means. You'll see what happens he'll have a fit. I can tell
you that in advance, and that 7 s just what I wanted to avoid." She
was offended. Her voice became even lower and very hard. "If you
go^ to Jean- Jacques about this, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow
he'll go back to Paris. That's as clear as crystal, I know my son-in-law.
He won't stay in a place where his poverty has been thrown in his
face."

This bloated vampire's unabashed blackmail infuriated Monsieur de
Girardin. But the old shark was capable of taking Jean-Jacques back
to Paris. He would have to agree to her insolent demands. Moreover,
he might possibly profit from her suggestion. There did exist unpub-
lished works by Jean-Jacques; that was well known. The Master had
written memoirs, and read aloud from them in Paris; but he had had
to give up these readings because certain great ladies and gentlemen
had felt insulted, and the Chief of Police had interfered. Girardin
was tempted by the prospect of acquiring a claim on the manuscripts.

"It is repugnant to me, rnadame/' he said, "even to think of the
time when the manuscripts you mention are to be published. But
since you have brought up the matter, I would like to make sure
that I have understood you aright. I naturally would not consider
having any part in the financial exploitation of the works, I would
take it as an insult if you were even to hint of such a possibility.
Rather I take it that you mean this: should in, let us hope, the very

52

distant future the necessity arise of considering the posthumous
publication of manuscripts by Jean-Jacques, then you and your
daughter will empower me to take part in editing them. That was
what you meant, was it not, madame?"

The old woman was not sure what these involved, inflated phrases
were supposed to mean, but she saw that he was prepared to come
across with the hundred louis and she replied boldly, "Certainly,
monsieur, that was exactly what I meant/ 7 "Very well, madame,"
said Girardin, "I shall be glad to give you a draft for the hundred
louis d'or."

Chapter 10 Heights and Depths

MADAME LEVASSEUB sent a message to her son. He came at once.
"I knew it," he exulted, "you can rely on Mama." The tall, husky
soldier embraced the short, fat old woman and kissed her loudly on
both cheeks.

This time, however, she was alone with her boy only for a short
time. For Nicolas, instead of sporting with Therese in tibe park, had
come to take a look at the sergeant who as Therese's half-brother
was, so to speak, his brother-in-law. He listened with interest to Mon-
sieur Renoux's stories. The two men took to each other at once;
they had the same philosophy of life.

There was a knock at the door and who should enter but the
young Count Fernand.

In the meanwhile he had met Jean-Jacques several times. His
equable melancholic serenity convinced Fernand that the Master
took Nature as he found it and Therese just as she was. How pre-
sumptuous it would be of Fernand to try to disturb this under-
standing.

Besides, he might have been mistaken that night. He had to forget;
he tried hard to forget.

If only Gilberte were here! A terrible yearning for Gilberte over-
came him. He sought out the places where he had been with her;

53

rode over to the deserted Chateau Latour. Forcing the astonished
caretaker to admit him, he hurried to Gilberte's apartment, her bou-
doir, her bedroom, snatched up clothes she had left behind, pressed
them to his heart, kissed them. He longed for Gilberte; his body and
soul were on fire.

He wrote her a long, long letter telling her of his conversations
with Jean-Jacques, and of how the Master had complained that his
works bore no fruit. Then he told her of his visit to abandoned
Latour. He poured out his whole heart. He wrote page upon raptur-
ous page in the language of the Nouvelle Heloise.

Afterward it occurred to him that he had written nothing to her
about his experiences with Therese. But there was no hypocrisy in
this. While he wrote he had genuinely forgotten Therese.

However, that evening at the chateau the familiar doubts and be-
wilderments had again violently attacked him. As so often in the
presence of others, Jean-Jacques had been agreeable to him, but a
stranger. And he was hit harder than ever before by the thought that
Jean-Jacques was never the same; each person he spoke to turned
him into someone else. What was he like when he talked and lived
with ThMse?

There at his father's table sat the Master, amiably chatting and
enjoying himself. Who was he, this incomprehensible person, the
warmest and the coldest, the most far-seeing and the blindest of
mortals? Had he no idea what his wife probably ~ no, certainly
was doing at this very moment?

A tormenting desire to know more overcame Fernand. He could
not bear to stay in the chateau. The woman would certainly be taking
advantage of Jean-Jacques's absence to meet her paramour. But if
she were doing so, doing so again, was that not proof beyond all
possible doubt? Fernand felt that he had to see with his own eyes,
hear with his own ears.

He went to the pavilion. If there was a light he could go in on
some pretext and see for himself whether Th6r&se was at home.

There was a light, and he entered. But to his surprise there were
two men there. Nothing had been proved, nothing refuted, He had
hoped to find Th6r&se either alone in the house or somewhere in
the park in the forbidden embrace of that scum, that animal And
now the errand that had been so hard to undertake was in vain. He
was disappointed and furious.

Suddenly he became very much the lord, the heir who one day

54

would rule this estate. "You had orders/' he said to Nicolas, "not to
appear in the pavilion. How dare you loll around here?" Nicolas
looked at him, grinned, looked across at Therese. "Answer, you lout!"
Fernand cried out. Nicolas in his squeaky voice answered calmly,
"If Monsieur le Marquis asks me, I will tell him the reasons." "Get
out, you scoundrel," Fernand shouted. It infuriated Nicolas to have
this young pipsqueak treat him so highhandedly in the presence of
the Levasseur family. He was on the point of answering back rudely,
but then he decided that would be foolhardy. With a wary, malicious
glare he sidled past Fernand and Therese.

Fernand expressed his regret that the ladies had been given such
an impertinent servant as Nicolas. He was quite the man of the
world, entirely at ease. Therese felt herself raised in the eyes of her
mother and brother because such a splendid young man was courting
her.

Madame Levasseur, delighted that the turtledove had asserted
himself and packed that lout off home, introduced her son, Sergeant
Renoux. Fernand was slightly abashed to learn that this second man
was not another of Therese's suitors, but her brother. He looked at
her more kindly, inwardly asking forgiveness.

The Sergeant tried to impress the young Count by telling stories
about America. Fernand was fascinated. For this new American
state was founded on Jean-Jacques's principles; the Boston people
professed to be his ardent disciples, and Benjamin Franklin, now
their envoy in Paris, declared at every possible opportunity how
much the American Revolution was indebted to the theories of Jean-
Jacques.

"It's a damned hard, dirty war," the Sergeant told them. "The com-
mon people are enthusiastic, but the rich are secretly on the side of
the tyrant; they keep their pockets buttoned up, and the Liberty
men are very poor. They starve until their ribs show. Their uniforms
are nothing but rags. They haven't even got shoes. It's damned cold,
and enthusiasm alone doesn't warm your hide nor fill your belly.
If we don't send them soldiers, they won't bring it off. Sergeant
Frangois Renoux knows what he's talking about, sir. Of course, some
of us did go over there, even a few gentlemen of the aristocracy;
you've certainly heard of Monsieur de Lafayette. But what can a
measly handful of men conjure up?"

Fernand listened absorbed. The common people are enthusiastic/
Yes, the people were making sacrifices for Jean-Jacques's ideas. The

55

people understood him; Jean- Jacques and the people spoke the same
language.

Francois rose. "I'm afraid I must go," he said. "It isn't wise for me
to meet Jean-Jacques. The fact is, there are certain things we dis-
agree about, my brother-in-law and me/' he explained to Femand.
"Because he's so impractical. But his ideas have the stuff; I live and
Td die for them." He embraced his mother. "Come again soon, my
boy," she said, "There's nothing I'd rather do," the Sergeant answered,
"but I don't know whether I'll be able to manage it." TPlease come,
my son," said Madame Levasseur. Her cold voice sounded almost
imploring.

Fernand also took his leave. "Come and see us again soon, Count
Fernand," Madame Levasseur said cordially. While her mother ortce
more embraced Frangois, Therese escorted Fernand to the door.
"Do come soon," she said softly, invitation in her husky, drawling
voice.

Fernand walked for a while through the night-shrouded park,
pondering the compelling power of Jean-Jacques's words and visions.
They were transforming a whole continent, the world across the
ocean. They were forcing the King against his will to aid the cause
of freedom. Even an uncouth fellow like this sergeant here had been
so deeply moved by them that he had gone overseas to fight against
tyranny in the virgin forests.

Fernand had quite forgotten his reason for going to the pavilion.
He no longer gave a thought to Jean-Jacques's blindness, to those
weaknesses and peculiarities Therese had spoken of,

And then came Gilberte's answer to his long letter, and this answer
erased Th6rese wholly from his mind and senses. Even in the midst
of the social whirl, Gilberte wrote, she had found time to read the
Nouvelle Htiloise again. And the frivolous language which she used
to describe her impressions of Saint- Vigor gyrated strangely off,
now and then, into romantic phrases charged with feeling, Fernand
glowed as he read them, He saw her clearly before him; he pressed
her letter to his lips. Gilberte alone existed for him.

But these noble emotions did not endure. Next day, the memory
of Th&r&se overcame him almost physically. He saw her, her mother,
and her brother just as he had last seen them in their house, saw
their faces and gestures, heard the words they had spoken. They
were the same faces, the same words, but how evilly, how strangely
altered. There they sat, the three members of the Levasseur family,

56

by the light of candles; they sat around Jean-Jacques's table, discuss-
ing Jean-Jacques, disposing of him as one might of a feeble-minded
child. Fernand thought of the rogue Nicolas; and now there were
four of them, waiting, for Jean- Jacques's death like vultures perched
around a dying man.

He set his teeth and banished the picture from his mind. He re-
called Gilberte's hasty, childish handwriting, heard Jean-Jacques's
voice not loud, yet how persuasive summoning people in the
words of the Social Contract to a life of freedom and equality.

But mingling with it came Therese's drawling, husky voice, inviting
him, "Do come soon." Was this not the voice of Providence itself
challenging him to discover what was at the bottom of the strange,
disquieting communion between the Master and Therese?

He would not obey this voice. He would stop tormenting himself
with these foolish doubts. He would await Gilberte's return. With her
he would discuss all the disharmonies which he had seen and brood-
ed upon. When he talked to her, looked into her clear eyes, all his
confusions would be resolved.

Must he really wait? Was there not a swifter, surer, more direct
way to learn the truth? Had not the Master written memoirs? And
had not Therese said of his writing, It's for the ones to come, he
says'? The reference must be to the memoirs! And they were here.
In the pavilion. He must read them! The Master himself must
explain the Master to him.

He would manage to get a look into these memoirs. Therese must
manage this for him. That was the meaning of his friendship with
her.

Once more he prowled about the pavilion, and this time he suc-
ceeded easily in intercepting her. They arranged to meet on the next
evening that Jean- Jacques spent at the chateau.

When that evening came, Fernand was as shy as at their first en-
counter. Side by side they walked along the narrow paths in silence.
Fernand was determined to avoid any suggestive word or gesture
and to talk to her only about the Master.

Finally in a stifled voice, stumblingly, he began to talk. How differ-
ent it was, he said, to hear from Jean- Jacques's own mouth phrases
that you recognized from his books; how exciting these phrases
sounded. And how splendid that Sergeant Renoux had been inspired
by Jean-Jacques to go to America. Therese was puzzled. As far as
she knew, Frangois had had to go abroad because he had been in-

57

volved in some affair dubious enough to engage the attention of the
King's magistrates. But it was not her business to put doubts into the
young Count's mind. <f Yes/ ? she said, "Jean-Jacques reads very well.
It is pleasant to have someone read aloud while you're working.
I am very fond of it on the long winter evenings when Fin sewing."

They had come once more to the willow tree by the shore of the
lake. Th&rese sat down on the grassy bank where Jean-Jacques was
accustomed to sit. The bank was narrow. Fernand did not want to
sit down beside her; he had not come on her account but on Jean-
Jacques's. He remained standing. Wondering a little, she asked, "Why
don't you sit down?" He did so.

Talk only about Jean-Jacques!* he commanded himself. 'Only
about the memoirs!' Aloud he said, "You were kind enough, madame,
to inform me that Monsieur Jean- Jacques was writing various things
and that there were various manuscripts in existence/' Ther^se
pricked up her ears suspiciously. Here he was talking about Jean-
Jacques's scribblings again. Perhaps she had been wrong; perhaps it
really was the papers he wanted, and not her at all. But no, it was
all just talk, She might be stupid, but she never made a mistake
about what men were after. "Yes," she said. "There is stuff that he
has written, bundles of it. But all for future generations. Didn't I tell
you?"

He was prepared for her saying this, and had already thought out
his reply. But he had forgotten what it was. The nearness of her
body confused him, and he made no attempt to collect himself.
There was a silence. Opposite them the island of the tall poplars
was faintly discernible. Leaves rustled; the lake plashed softly.

"How hot it is," Th&rese said. With deliberate movements she un-
fastened her bonnet and took it off. She ran her fingers through her
hair; it tumbled down over her shoulders. He did not dare to look.
He had seen the chestnut-brown hair under her bonnet and had
tried to imagine what this hair would look like when it was no longer
imprisoned by the bonnet Now he felt something tickling his cheek.
It was her hair, and at last he looked at her. "Yes," said Th6r&se ?
"My hair is long and heavy. It's a job getting it all under my bonnet"

Fernand swallowed. He must not let himself go; he must keep his
mind on what he wanted to say, "I know that the manuscript is for
the ones to come, madame," he said, "but I am still young. In a way
I belong to those to come. Would you allow me to have a look at
Jean-Jacques's manuscript?"

58

Therese was disagreeably surprised. Was it possible? Was he really
after the papers? Dimly she remembered Jean-Jacques's complaints
that his enemies had falsified his writings in order to blacken him
before the King and the world in general. Could this young man
be ? Nonsense. She couldn't have been mistaken. When a man
spoke so hoarsely, with such agitation, there was only one thing he
wanted.

She turned her head slightly, so that the full torrent of her hair
brushed against his cheek. He felt he must retreat, must flee. For
the fraction of a second he remembered Gilberte, her room, her
clothes, her fragrance. But this memory faded before it really became
clear, and there was nothing left but the reality of Therese's hair.
Against his will his hand glided through this flowing hair, stroked it,
sank into it, twisted it, gently pulled it. "You're hurting me," she said,
and in the darkness she groped for his hand, took it. He snatched
his hand away as if he had been burned, stretched it out again and
grasped hers, grasped it more firmly, pressed it, relaxed his hold,
pressed it a little harder.

She felt triumphant. But now she kept the young man waiting. She
pretended not to know what he really wanted. Instead, she referred
matter-of-factly to his silly, boyish request to be allowed to look at
the scribblings. "I don't know whether I can do anything for
you about that," she said. *T11 have to talk to my mother. I'm sure
Jean- Jacques wouldn't like it at all. I ought not to do anything he
wouldn't like. He's so good to me. He's a saint"

Fernand only half listened. He was still holding her hand, but
why did she no longer return his pressure? And why was she starting
to talk about the manuscript again? He was disappointed.

Now, however, she felt the time had come. "But it is hard to say
no to you," she went on, and she returned the pressure of his hand,
laid her arm around his shoulders. "I'd do a lot for you," she said.

They kissed.

His stern resolve was brushed aside; he had ceased to think. He
could not tell whether he embraced her or she him, whether he was
drawn down or let himself fall. He sank, unwilling and willing, into
depths, into flame, into Nature.

59

Chapter 11 Tberese's Suitors

THEHESE HAD never felt any guilt about seeking extramarital pleas-
ures. Long ago when she had confessed to Jean-Jacques that she was
no longer a virgin, he had not minded. She did not know whether
he had noticed anything later when she tumbled in the hay with
other men; he never said a word about it. At any rate, in view of
his condition* she felt justified in having other men. But when she
did, she was faithful to her lover; she believed in having only one
at a time. She had thought that for the summer here in Ermenoiiville
this one would be Monsieur Nicolas, and now suddenly the young
Count had come along and she had allowed herself to be seduced
by him.

Ordinarily she took things as they came and did not waste much
thought on them. But Nicolas ~~ she had perceived this immediately
was the right man for her, her match in body as well as in station,
and her conscience bothered her about not being faithful to him.
Carrying on with two men at once wasn't nice. She was too decent
for that.

All the same, it would probably turn out all right this time. As a
servant and a man of her own class, Nicolas would surely understand
that a simple woman had no choice but to oblige a real count and
the future seigneur of Ermenonville. As for Count Fernand himself,
he was very young and inexperienced and certainly wouldn't notice
that she was having an affair with Nicolas at the same time.

To tell the truth she was genuinely fond of both of them. Nicolas
was the better lover, but this fresh young count, this green lover,
made a girl feel good too. Besides she could talk frankly to him, grand
gentleman though he was; he was easier to talk to than Nicolas, the
man of her own class.

When she saw Nicolas again for the first time after her experience
with Fernand, her body pulsed with love for him. She found him

60

more manly than before; she thought he was the only man for her.
The wrong she had done him made him more desirable than ever.
But when he took her, she could not help thinking of Fernand;
it was as if she were making love with both of them at once, and it
was very sweet

Later it struck her that her real infidelity to Nicolas was in think-
ing of Count Fernand while she lay in Nicolas's arms. She made an
attempt to justify herself. First, with clumsy archness, she asked him
if he were faithful to her. "Don't talk such rubbish, old girl," he
replied with rough good nature. Whereupon, as if he had called
her to account, she protested that the young Count wasn't after
'this' at all; he only wanted to read Jean- Jacques's scribbles.

Nicolas, usually so glib, fell silent. Since her very first mention of
the fool's scribblings he had been counting on somehow using those
papers to make the two hundred louis d'or that he needed for his sta-
bles. He wasn't going to have that young Count putting his oar in.
Something had to be done, and fast.

He gave Therese a detailed account of his plans. The fact was, he
declared, the Marquis had cheated him. He had enticed him here
from London with the promise that he would have a big, fancy stud
to look after. Instead of which Monsieur de Girardin was squandering
his money on these crazy gardens. He, Nicolas, wasn't going to wear
himself out here. As soon as he could manage it he would set himself
up as the Tattersall of Paris. He went into great detail; just talking
of horses made his heart swell. Therese could not follow all Nicolas
said, but she had faith in him and was full of enthusiasm.

"And to think that all I need is a miserable two hundred louis
d'or!" he exclaimed indignantly. "And the world full of idle cash.
Why, you have the same trouble yourself, Madame Therese. There
are all the philosopher's writings and a woman like you has to pinch
and scrape and get along with only one silk dress. And now Count
Fernand wants to have a look at the papers. Hell make trouble, your
Count Femand, mark my words. He'll be babbling everywhere, and
if there's too much talk about the papers theyll lose their virginity,
so to speak; their value to the connoisseur will go phut. And there
you'll sit, Madame Therese, with your cotton dresses. Take my ad-
vice, turn the writings into money while they're still worth something.
Of course I know you have no head for business, but a smart woman
like your Mama ought to be able to handle that half-assed old philo-
sopher. And as soon as we've got the money, you'll see how quick it

61

breeds more. Ill have my stables and you'll have gowns and jewels
and a gilded carriage like a lady deserves. Talk to your Mama! I
want you to! Do as I tell you."

Therese knew that if anything could have been done with the
papers her mother would have done it long ago. But she felt flattered
that Nicolas was jealous of her little count and also that he should
consider her not only someone with whom to tumble in the hay, but
a friend with whom he could discuss his affairs. Besides, he was apt
to turn nasty if crossed. She replied that she would pass his advice
on to her mother. He favored her with a good smack on the behind
and remarked that he had seen right off that she was a person to
whom a man could talk sense.

He went home through the park alone, still mulling over his plans.
He couldn't do with less than two hundred louis. It was no good
beginning in a small way; the whole thing was to do it in style,

His train of thought was disturbed by furious barking. A dog came
leaping out at him. He sized up the situation at once; the philoso-
pher, the fool, had taken Lady up to the cMteau with him, as he
so often did of late. The wretched beast had taken a dislike to him,
Nicolas, from the first, and now it was even butting in on his meet-
ings with Th^r&se. "Shut up, you filthy bitch," he muttered in English
to the growling, snapping, barking animal. "It's only me/' he called
out in French, "Monsieur Nicolas, from the household of Monsieur
le Marquis." "Here, Lady," the fool called soothingly. The dog re-
treated and the philosopher and the stableboy each went his way.

For her part, Therese was surprised, even a little amused, that her
suitors should both make such a fuss about Jean- Jacques's scribblings.
All right, she would do her best to please them both, Fernand as
well as Nicolas.

Determined to play her game cleverly, she mentioned to her
mother only Fernand's request to have a look at the papers. Then,
unconsciously betraying her little count, she went on as if it were
her own thought. "Maybe there really is something in this talk of
Jean-Jacques. His enemies may really be trying to get hold of his
stuff and falsify it. Perhaps you ought to collect on his scribbles as
soon as possible. If you don't, their value to the connoisseur will go
up the flue." Her mother gave her a penetrating glance. "What's
going up the flue?" she asked with a grin. "Their value to the con-
noisseur? You ought to have your fat bottom smacked with your
Value to the connoisseur.' But I know who's behind this twaddle.

62

That pimp of yours, your manure-prince, that Nicolas/' Therese
looked sulky. She was annoyed with herself for having handled the
thing so stupidly. Nothing, of course, ever got by her mother.

With inexorable logic Madame Levasseur continued, "If you had
an ounce of brain, you would see that the fellow isn't out to get
what's left of your beauty. He's after our chink. But you probably
still don't see that. You were always dumb, but when you're in heat
you lose your last shred of sense."

She herself cast a malevolent and greedy look, as she had done so
often before, at Jean-Jacques's writing table and chest Nicolas's ad-
vice was quite superfluous. She would long ago have liked to turn
the papers into money. She was no longer so young and a little cash
would certainly have come in handy, if only to indulge her son,
Frangois. But she had had to learn to sit it out

"As for letting the Count see the writings, I shall have to think
that over," she told Therese severely. "Ill talk to him myself, and you
keep your mouth shut. You'll only mess things up. And you can tell
that pimp of yours that any advice he has to give me, he can come
and give himself, I'll tell him a thing or two!"

Once alone, she considered carefully the best course of action.
She'd be damned if she'd let that manure-prince get anywhere near
the writing table or chest. The young Count well, he was welcome
to grub about in the papers. It would be all right to string the little
turtledove along.

Chapter 12 Confessions

A CONFUSION OF emotions throbbed in Fernandas breast after his re-
cent experience, emotions which he had never known.

He had betrayed Jean-Jacques, Gilberte, Therese; he had contam-
inated himself and everyone else.

Yet, what he had felt for Therese, and still felt, was not the mere
lust or sexual greed which had seized him that time in Paris and that
second time in the country. Nor was it love; it would be blasphemy

63

to compare his feelings for Gilberte with what he felt for Therese.
What drew him to Th6rese was Nature Nature itself. Th6rese
was wholly untouched by the spiritual. She was a clod, she was
mud, she was the puddle; but she was also the sunlight that danced
upon the puddle's surface. What had drawn him to her was more
than just desire. When she said to him, "I'd do a lot for you/' the
velvety quality of her voice had expressed a tenderness he would
never forget. She loved him; there was 110 doubt of it.

But what next? Flow was he to look Jean-Jacques In the face?
What was to happen when Gilberte returned?

He ought to pluck his feeling for Therese out of his heart like a
poisoned arrow. But if he stopped seeing Th&r&se and simply ran
away, was that not base and cowardly? He could not shirk his moral
obligation in that way. He must see her at once, must make it clear
why they both had to avoid seeing each other. But he was afraid of
himself. What he had done disgusted him, and he longed to do it
again and yet again.

Once more he went to the pavilion when he knew Jean- Jacques
was out for a walk. With every step of the way he felt grim repent-
ance and overwhelming desire.

He knocked. A thin, toneless voice answered, "Come in." He en-
tered. Madame Levasseur was there alone. He was deeply disap-
pointed even while he breathed a sigh of relief.

The old woman was glad of the chance to speak to Fernand alone.
He had probably come about the papers, she began. Therese had
mentioned his interest in them. "But," she declared, "it's really not
right, sir, what you're asking of us. It is my son-in-law's wish that no
one should see the papers before his death." She looked at Fernand
with her sharp little eyes. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" she
said abruptly. "You are so often together." He stood silent and
confused. "I know our Jean-Jacques is a bit peculiar," she said,
coming to his rescue, "and you are a true friend. This I can see
for myself, and my son-in-law says the same. So I shall do you
this favor," she concluded graciously. "But we must be careful. Come
only when you're absolutely certain he won't surprise xis." Fernand
stammered his thanks. She wagged her finger at him playfully.
"You're a foxy one, my young sir," she said. "You've got around my
daughter already and now you're getting around me. Putting an old
woman up to mischief for the first time In her life! Till tomorrow,
then."

64

Fernand went away in a daze. Why did he not apply to Jean-
Jacques himself, Madame Levasseur had asked. Even she had rec-
ognized the sordid character of his undertaking. No, he would not
go ahead with it. He would not go to the pavilion tomorrow and poke
and pry among Jean- Jacques's manuscripts.

Next morning he was at the pavilion. Madame Levasseur handed
him two packets. "There are seventeen folders to the bundle/' she
explained. "I've counted them. I've also noted just how things were
arranged in the chest and on his writing table so that these can go
back exactly where they were.'*

Therese was in the room, going about her housework. She could
not tear her eyes away from him, for it was some time since she had
seen him. Her presence upset him. He found himself unable to con-
centrate. "Can I take the manuscripts with me?" he asked finally.
"What are you thinking of, sir?" cried Madame Levasseur, horrified.
"As though it weren't risky enough already!" And pointing to Jean-
Jacques's writing table, she commanded, "Now sit down."

Hesitantly, Fernand sat down. What he was doing was sacrilege.
To pry among the Master's secrets at his own writing desk, in the
presence of his wife, whom he had defiled it was a monstrous act.
But now he had plunged into the current and there was no going
back.

He opened the first packet. There was the word 'Recollections,'
but it had been crossed out, and in Jean- Jacques's beautiful, powerful,
yet delicate, hand, had been substituted the word 'Confessions.'

He read:

'I have entered upon a performance which is without example,
whose acomplishment will have no imitator. I mean to present my
fellow mortals with a man in all the integrity of Nature; and this
man shall be myself!

'Myself alone. I sense my heart, and I know man. I am not made
like any of those I have met and not, I daresay, like anyone in exist-
ence. If I am not better, at least I am different

'Whenever the last trumpet shall sound, I will present myself be-
fore the sovereign Judge with this book in my hand, and loudly
proclaim: Thus have I acted, these were my thoughts, such was I.
I have concealed no crimes, added no virtues. I have shown myself
as I was; sometimes mean and contemptible, sometimes noble, high-
minded, and sublime. Let the countless host of my fellow men listen
to my confessions, let them blush at my depravity, let them tremble

at my sufferings. And then, O Supreme Being, let a single one dare
say at the foot of Thy throne: I was better than that man.*

Fernand read on, and indeed a shockingly naked truthfulness
leapt at him from the wonderful lucidity of Jean-Jacques's phrases.
Fernand had not dreamed that any man could so fearlessly lower
himself into the caverns of his own ego. How monstrously fissured
were the depths of the human soul, how much more perilous than
any clefts beneath the surface of the earth. Miraculous that anyone
who dared enter and regard these ghastly mysteries did not go out
of his mind.

Fernand read about the first corporal punishment that, at the age
of eight, Jean- Jacques had received, And how this spanking, admin-
istered by a pretty woman of thirty, had given the small boy a kind
of sensual gratification, a precocious sexual stirring, and how this
experience had determined the direction of his passions, his desires,
his sensuality for all time.

And Fernand read of how at nine Jean- Jacques had suffered his
first injustice. He was punished for a misdeed he had not committed,
but had remained unshaken "obstinate* his elders had called him;
he refused to confess to what he had not done, and he emerged
from this cruel trial sore but triumphant. Imagine a child,* Fernand
read, 'shy and obedient, a child hitherto governed by the voice of
reason, treated mildly, experiencing for the first time so violent an
instance of injustice and that inflicted by the very people whom
he most loves and respects! What a collapse of his world! What revo-
lution in his heart, in his brain! The bodily pain, although severe, I
felt but little; all I felt was indignation, rage, despair. When at length
I was in bed and could vent my wrath, I sat upright on my poor pos-
terior and began to shout times without number with all my might:
"Carnifex! Carnifexl Carnifex! Tormentor! Executioner!" Even while
I write this I feel my pulse quicken, and should I live a hundred
thousand years, that memory will never wither. This first instance of
violence and oppression is so deeply graven on my heart that it
kindles with rage when I see or hear of any act of injustice, whoever
may be the object. This occurrence terminated the serenity of my
childhood.'

And Fernand read of how at eighteen, working as a lackey in a
great household, Jean-Jacques had, for no apparent reason, stolen a
worthless old pink-and-silver ribbon, and had then blamed the theft
on a pleasant, good-natured chambermaid who had never done him

66

the slightest harm. All this Jean- Jacques described graphically, with
no attempt at explanation; it simply was so, and Feraand was ap-
palled at the power of evil and unreason which could break forth
and overcome even such a man as Jean-Jacques.

Jean- Jacques plunged even deeper and more distressingly into the
murky labyrinth of his inmost soul, recounted ever new actions and
propensities, both 'ridiculous and pathetic' simple pleasures of the
flesh and exquisite indulgences of the imagination.

Then Fernand read of the wicked treatment Jean-Jacques had
suffered at the hands of his friends. The great men of the time,
Diderot, Melchior Grimm, the makers of the Encyclopedic, the great
Voltaire himself all of them had banded against Jean- Jacques, had
persecuted and betrayed him. All had proved themselves conceited,
deluded, shallow. Their suave, important faces were masks conceal-
ing gargoyles. Only one figure in the group of leading intellectuals
stood up before Jean- Jacques's searching test: Jean- Jacques.

For three mornings in a row Fernand came to the house and read
the thick packets of the Confessions. The sheets as they were given
him by Madame Levasseur were not in the right order, but that
hardly mattered, so fascinated and overwhelmed was he by the
material.

He wanted to read slowly and carefully, but he read quickly, with
furious urgency. For surely he must hurry. There was the chance
that his luck would not last: either Madame Levasseur would change
her mind, or his secret reading would be discovered, or some unpre-
dictable mischance would occur.

The women went bustling about their work; the trees looked in at
the windows; the canaries trilled loudly in their cage. Fernand read
on. Now and again, much against his will, he would be distracted by
Th&rese's presence. But when she was not about he was even more
distracted. Then he would be obsessed by the image of her lying
somewhere with Nicolas, and the painful impressions arising from
Jean- Jacques's writings would mingle in his soul with the tormenting
image of Therese's embrace with Nicolas.

He read what Jean-Jacques had to say about the Levasseur family.
He read the grotesque and ugly tale of Therese's brother, Sergeant
Frangois, 'the American,' stealing Jean-Jacques's silk shirts. He
read how Madame Levasseur and her whole family ruthlessly ex-
ploited his wonderfully unselfish' Therese. The story went on: The
old woman, pretending mother-love, even self-sacrifice, spied on

Jean-Jacques and betrayed him to his enemies. 1 might have par-
doned her avarice,' he read, *but I could not forgive her dissimulation.
Her infamy has alienated my heart so completely that at times I can
scarcely conceal my contempt for her.' Fernand was crushed to think
that now he too should be availing himself of this spiteful old
woman's help, and at the same time he was grimly amused that
Madame Levasseur should herself have enabled him to read the bad
that Jean-Jacques had to say about her.

Jean- Jacques also described his ailment, "a defective formation of
the bladder which caused an almost continual retention of urine/
And there stood recorded how the court marshal summoned him to
Fontainebleau after the triumph of his opera, The Village Prophet.
He was to be presented to the King and to receive a yearly pension.
"My first thought,' Fernand read, 'was that of my constant need to re-
lieve myself. Already on the evening of the performance this need
had greatly troubled me, and I was sure it would torture me even
more the next day in the King's apartments among all those ladies
and gentlemen. The mere idea of the scandal I would provoke if I
should have to run away from the King's person made me faint. I
should have preferred death. Only those who know what this condi-
tion is can imagine the horror the mere threat of it causes/ So Therese
had been right Not Jean-Jacques the Citizen of Geneva but Jean-
Jacques the invalid with a weak bladder had performed that splen-
did gesture. Yet Therese's simple interpretation had been wrong none-
theless. For Jean- Jacques gave an account of his other motives too, and
these were the motives of a proud citizen. In simple, convincing
language he told how he had not wished to be seduced by honor or
money, but wanted to remain independent, and how he had quarrel-
ed with his friend Diderot because he had urged him to apply even
belatedly for the pension. The ruthless clarity with which Jean-
Jacques set down his motives caused Fernand's feelings to plunge
from admiration to disillusionment and soar up again to reverence.

Further on Jean- Jacques related contemptuously how a friend of
his, a gouty old man worn out by a life of lechery and other excesses,
had set out to seduce Therese, using the basest, most shameless
means: money, a disgusting book, smutty pictures. Fernand was con-
sumed with shame and violent remorse. If Jean- Jacques felt such con-
tempt for the false old friend, how outraged would he be that he,
Fernand, his own pupil and so very, very young, had approached the
Master's companion with obscene eyes and hands? The strangest thing

68

of all was that even as he felt this, Therese's proximity was quicken-
ing his blood. The woman tempted and disgusted him, excited him
as nothing had ever excited him before. He tried to picture Gilberte
to himself in the hope that her pure image would put to rout the lust
emanating from Therese. He could not. He tried to return to the Con-
fessions. He could read no further. He went down to the lake, swam
fast and far as though he could wash away the corruption in his soul.

Chapter 13 More Confessions

IT WAS A pleasant surprise for Girardin and Monsieur Gerber when
Jean- Jacques appeared unannounced at the chateau one day with his
womenfolk. Fernand on the other hand did not know what to do,
what to say or where to look. Madame Levasseur favored him with a
little conspiratorial smile, and even Therese's languid face wore an
expression of mischievous amusement.

Jean- Jacques behaved as naturally as ever. He conversed animated-
ly with the Marquis and even persuaded Monsieur Gerber to talk.
The shy man was soon describing the plays he had staged with
Fernand in the latter's puppet theater and was extolling the talent the
young Count had displayed. He did not mention that he himself
wrote verses in his leisure hours, nor did he speak of the intense
pleasure he had derived from these innocent puppet shows. Jean-
Jacques was obviously delighted with the Alsatian's story. "What
about it, Fernand," he said. "Shall we put on a little performance our-
selves one of these days? My Village Prophet, for example?"

Jean-Jacques's unsuspecting friendliness shattered Fernand.

Taking his leave of them, the Master said, "May I expect you to-
morrow, Fernand?" He had never before actually invited the young
Count to accompany him. Fernand was almost frightened.

Again the following morning, Jean- Jacques was calm, affectionate,
and even gay. Fernand walked at his side, feeling himself the vilest
hypocrite on earth. He answered in monosyllables, his expres-

69

sive face betraying his discomfort. He could only hope that Jean-
Jacques would not notice.

But Jean- Jacques asked: 'What is the matter, Fernand? You seem
depressed. Are you thinking of your Gilberte?" Fernand writhed with
pain and shame; he could scarcely keep from crying like a little boy.

Yet the very next day, when he knew that Jean- Jacques was out
walking, he revisited the pavilion. The interval had merely strength-
ened his fierce, sweet, morbid eagerness to read further, to uncover
the Master's secrets.

What he learned this time was indeed strangely loathsome. Certain
rumors spread by Jean-Jacques's friends which he, Fernand, had
always dismissed as vile slander turned out to be true. There it was
Jean-Jacques himself had written it down in his fine, firm, graceful
characters with an untrembling hand: he had committed Th&ese's
children to the Foundling Hospital, to the Hospice des Enfants-
Trouves. Not one but several; and he told of these horrible acts acts
which seemed to violate the commands of Nature and human de-
cency as if they were the most natural in the world. He described
this in every detail, with no attempt 'to excuse or to accuse' himself.
Boldly and serenely he had chosen this most convenient 'way out of
the incommodity* without the slightest qualms, and the reasons he
enumerated for his behavior were clear, sober and practical. In the
first place, it was a customary procedure. In the second place, he
wished to save Th^rese's honor, since at the time he had not yet mar-
ried her. In the third place, he was merely applying his own prin-
ciples when as an honest citizen and a good father, he had destined
his children to become artisans and peasants rather than, adven-
turers and fortune-hunters. There had been only one obstacle to
overcome: the opposition of Th^rese herself. Oddly enough, she had
been most reluctant to save her honor and reputation by these means.
"She obeyed with wails and tears/ Jean- Jacques recorded.

Fernand read this in the presence of the woman whose infants had
been 'disposed of in this manner, and in his heart he sided with
Ther&se. He was appalled by Jean-Jacques's bald, shameless account.
This inarticulate woman, blind creature of instinct what must she
have suffered when this was done to her?

He leafed back through the pages and reread what Jean-Jacques
had written thus far about Th^rese. He read with almost unbearable
suspense, avidly devouring each mention of her name. A great deal

70

was written about her, by turns coldly critical and heartwarming, re-
volting and sublime.

Fernand read on read of Jean-Jacques's first encounter with
Therese in the small, wretched Hotel Saint-Quentin; of her simplicity
and soft, eloquent glances which had moved him to defend her
against the coarse jests of the other boarders; and of her thanking him
with the only thing she had to offer, her body. But at once a misun-
derstanding arose between them. For after Therese had slept with
him for the first time, she spoke darkly of having something to confess
to him. Jean-Jacques was led to suppose that she was ill and had
passed the infection on to him. For days they talked at cross-purposes
until finally Therese explained that she had not been a virgin had
he not noticed it himself? 'As soon as I understood her,' his account
ran, 1 gave a shout of joy.' "Virginity!" I exclaimed. "Who would ex-
pect that in Paris, and of a girl already twenty! Ah, my Therese, how
happy I am to have you so clean and healthy!" *

Fernand read on: 'At first, amusement was my only object; I then
perceived I had found a companion for life. While thinking of noth-
ing more than my pleasure, I had laid the foundation of my happi-
ness/

Then Femand saw these words: 'At first I attempted to improve
her mind; my pains were useless. Her mind remains as Nature formed
it; it is not susceptible to cultivation. I do not blush to acknowl-
edge that she writes only tolerably and never knew how to read
well. For more than a month I did my utmost to teach her how to tell
the time; she still cannot do so. She never could enumerate the twelve
months of the year in order. She neither knows how to count nor how
to reckon the price of anything. She cannot use her words correctly
and often says the opposite of what she means. Her ignorance, her
malapropisms, are famous among my friends. For the amusement of
Madame de Luxembourg I once made a list of the phrases she uses.
But this person, so limited in understanding so stupid, if you
will can give astonishingly sound advice in cases of difficulty and
has rescued me from the gravest dangers.'

Further: 'The most intimate union of the flesh did not appease me;
what I longed for was the union of two souls.' And: 'After all, we had
very few ideas in common, Therese and I. The pleasure of our coun-
try life inspired me to reflections which were beyond her. And it is
precisely in rustic solitude that you want a companion who shares
your feelings.'

71

Fernand was shocked and astounded. Here in the same room sat
the Therese of flesh and blood, unaware that in these pages there
lived a Therese praised for her companionship and good nature, yet
bared in all her nullity and emptiness a The'rese shadowy yet im-
mortal, far more real than the living Therese sitting beside him.

T have always considered the day which united me with my
Therese/ he read, *as that which set the course of my inner life. I am
united with her by means of an attachment which neither time nor
ill fate have been able to impair, and everything which ought to have
destroyed it has only strengthened it.'

But on the next page he read: "What then will the reader think
when I declare to him, with all the sincerity which he must now rec-
ognize as part of my character, that from the first moment I saw her
up to this day I have never felt the least spark of love for her. The
sensual needs which I satisfied on her person were only those of the
sexual impulse; they had nothing to do with my inner self.' There it
was naked, shameless. Fernand was crushed.

Clearly and concisely, Jean- Jacques summed up: "She was without
a shadow of art or coquetry. I had nothing to fear from men. I am cer-
tain of being the only man she ever truly loved; and her moderate
passions never desired another man even when I had ceased to be
a man to her/

Fernand thought he must have misread. He read the passage a
second time, and then a third time.

How could a man who saw more deeply than any other into Nature
and human relationships be so blind about the woman with whom he
shared his life?

Was he so blind? Or did he wish to be so blind? Was a great man
who combined genius with such convenient blindness still a great
man?

But who was he, Fernand, to set himself up as Jean-Jacques's
judge? He had studied his writings intensively, had been living close
to him for weeks. Yet now he was discovering that he had known
nothing about him.

Did he know anything about him even now? The man who had
lived the turbulent, shameless life described in the Confessions, who
had endured outrageous sufferings and inflicted outrageous suffering
upon others was this the same person who had gone walking with
Fernand yesterday to collect botanical specimens, who had shown
compassion for every living creature? Which was the real Jean-

72

Jacques the modest one who chatted amiably with any forester
and listened to the advice of Goodman Maurice, proprietor of The
Chestnuts; or the Jean- Jacques who proclaimed himself a shining ex-
ample to all mankind?

'This is the man I am, Jean- Jacques, Citizen of Geneva. Has any-
one had deeper, more horrifying insights than I? Has anyone suffered
more bitterly than I? Ecce homo. All are wrong; I alone am right/

And what if it were so? What if Jean- Jacques were right and every-
one else wrong?

Be that as it may, had he not grounds for unlimited pride? He had
conceived and explored a new world; his adventure had been more
daring than that of Columbus. Would not this man, so frail in body,
collapse beneath the weight of his fearful knowledge? Was not in-
comparable pride essential if he were to hold himself erect?

A chaos of emotions awe, admiration, pity, reverence and a faint,
ironic contempt mingled in Fernand's heart.

And just as Jean- Jacques became stranger and more problematical
as Fernand learned more about him, so did all the other people he
knew lose their clear outlines. The faces of those close to him changed
again and again. There was no longer any fixed reality. The life which
he had thus far observed about him was only the thin outer crust; it
was beneath this that real life, complex and bewildering, began.

Fernand slept poorly during this period. When he closed his eyes
he saw before him the firm, graceful handwriting of the Confessions,
and even as he looked, it turned into the persons and places it de-
scribed. He himself became Jean- Jacques, committed Jean- Jacqueses
monstrous crimes. He allowed himself to be kept by a middle-aged
mistress. He denied his old faith, denied also his new faith, to regain
citizenship of his city of Geneva. He loved women whom he could
never hope to possess and slept with women for whom he felt no love.
He abandoned his newborn children. He betrayed his friends. He
accused himself, then defended himself with empty excuses. He
loathed himself and boasted of loathing himself. Whatever he did was
just. He considered himself the only just man in the world. And
strangest of aU he was.

Throughout these weeks, Fernand lived far from Ermenonville, in
the bizarre and dangerous world of the Confessions. His own world
became bizarre too. For if he were to set down his own short lif e with
the truthfulness of the Master, would he not disclose abysses as ter-
rible as those which Jean- Jacques had revealed? Fernand felt no love

73

for Therese, had nothing in common with her, could not plead any
great, consuming passion. When he lay with her, deceiving the
Master and wallowing in the slime, it was only because he was at-
tracted to filth, because he was corrupted through and through. And
on top of it all he went to the pavilion and pried into the Master's
secrets.

Yet his consciousness of the fact that this act of reading was wicked
and perverse merely enhanced its value. Cost what it may, he ate
greedily of the tree of knowledge. What were the pronouncements of
the Ancients, the revelations of the Bible, the teachings of the French
classics, as against the profound, equivocal wisdom of this book!
What a horrifying greed for truth blazed from these pages, what a
crushing, exalted passion for Janus-headed knowledge!

Chapter 14 What Is Truth?

FERNANDAS CHILDHOOD had not been especially happy. Monsieur de
Girardin had proud and pleasant memories of his career as a general.
It was a source of worry to him that his son showed so little inclina-
tion toward discipline and military life. With the idea of strengthen-
ing his moral fiber, Girardin sent Ms thirteen-year-old son to the
Military Academy. This establishment, famous for its stiff regime,
was attended almost entirely by commoners and government officials.
The teachers, determined to show that they were not impressed by
Count Br6gy's title, had treated him with special severity. His
comrades, filled with conscious or unconscious envy of the future
seigneur of Ermenonville who was assured of a brilliant career re-
quiring no effort on his part, had kept themselves at a distance, or
even been openly hostile. The sensitive boy had suffered in soul and
body. Sometimes he felt that he would never survive his schooldays.
Then later, during the long journey in the company of his father, he
had realized how greatly his father loved him. When to that revela-
tion was added the great joy of discovering Gilberte, Fernandas

74

whole outlook had become happy. He had rested content in the be-
lief that with the bitter years at the Military Academy the most
difficult part of life was behind him. And now, through his own
fault, he had become involved in such an ugly and horrible mess
that by comparison his former experiences were simply childish
nonsense.

He made up his mind to confess everything to the Master. But
he could not do it.

He resolved to write to Gilberte, his soul-mate, and tell her the
whole story of his surreptitious reading, his physical and spiritual
involvement with Therese. He would make his confession with the
same fanatical honesty Jean- Jacques had displayed in reviewing his
life. Once he captured in words his heartsickness, he would be able
to rise from the morass into which his recklessness had enticed him.

But even as he conceived the plan he knew he could not carry it
out. It simply was not in him to express his own noxious inner life
with the courageous objectivity of a Jean-Jafeques. He would color
his actions, would be too emotional to refrain from accusing and
excusing himself; he would lament his own wickedness. And it would
all be a lie. He did not want to part with his wickedness, not for any-
thing. He was proud that he was as he was.

Nor would he give up his entanglement with Therese. She repelled
him, and yet he knew she had only to say in her deep, languid voice*
"How about going for another walk, Count Fernand?" and whatever
he was doing he would rise and go with her. Her air of torrid lust,
her smell, her profoundly innocent viciousness, her slow, provocative
carriage, the painful effort with which she assembled words to ex-
press her murky mind, even the disgust she aroused in him all
these were links in the chain with which she held him.

Therese did not invite him to go walking with her. At their first
meeting after their embrace, she had been disappointed to find him
so stiff and distant Did he regret having made love to her? Had
his love been spent in this one embrace? Instinct told Therese that
this was not so; it was just that he was a count and felt embarrassed.
She hung around while he was reading Jean- Jacques's scribblings, and
it gratified her to see that her presence upset him. If she so much
as glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes, he stirred uneasily.
But she gave him no encouragement.

The two times Fernand came and did not find her in, she was in
fact with Nicolas, just as he had thought with bitter scorn and fury.

75

But these encounters had not gone off well Therese was afraid to tell
Nicolas that her mother had rejected his advice and would not do
anything about the papers. But Nicolas was expecting a report from
her, and since she said nothing he asked her bluntly, "Have you
spoken to your Mama, madame?" She faltered, "Not yet." Whereupon
he became brusque and surly, and when she grew amorous he fended
her off, saying he was in no mood for such foolishness. "If that's what
you want, you can go to your dear little Count," he said venomously,
and she realized that until she could settle the matter of the papers
there would be no more love-making with Nicolas.

On the other hand, Fernand, who up to now had only come by
day, turned up one evening when Jean- Jacques was at the chateau.
Both women instantly saw that he had come for Therese's sake.

Th6rese had been hoping Nicolas would take advantage of this
evening. She had already been waiting for him for quite a while.
But he was standing her up obviously in order to punish her. By
this time she was thoroughly annoyed, and she greeted Fernand
with her sulkiest expression. Vexed with her stupid daughter,
Madame Levasseur did what she could to help the young gentleman
get his pleasure. "Why don't you and Therese go out for a breath of
fresh air on a warm summer evening like this?" she asked bluntly.
Femand looked at Therese with helpless eagerness. But she gave
him a bold stare and answered lazily and ungraciously, "I don't feel
like it tonight." Shamefaced, Fernand left.

He walked in the darkness, depressed and angry. But his rage
was directed not against Th6rese, but against Jean-Jacques. How
could she help becoming what she was, after all the dreadful things
he had done to her? Fernand rebelled against the Master. Jean-
Jacques, the man who had preached the noblest, the wisest imagin-
able principles of education in mile y should certainly have accepted
the duty of bringing up his own children.

A woman who had suffered so much deserved to be pitied. He
longed to caress her. The memory of her eyes excited him. The wild,
voluptuous images of the Confessions welled up in his mind, ming-
ling with fantasies of his own. He imagined a second encounter,
fiercer and more passionate than the first one by the lake.

When Therese found that Nicolas had again passed up chances to
see her, she reproached herself for having treated the young Count
so badly. Now she had neither of them. After all, the young Count
had not meant to hurt her. He was just a dreamer, a silly, awkward

76

child. The breach between them was artificial; she must stop it from
getting any wider or she'd be out one more fine friendship. Lying
with him just once only - no, that wasn't at all what she d had in
mind.

She watched for him to pass by. Just as he had hoped and feared,
she said, "How about going for another walk, Count Femand?"

They met that same evening.

It happened just as he had imagined it; his desire swept all doubts
aside and engulfed him in a dark, turbulent flood.

Later they sat on the grassy bank under the willow tree. She was
very affectionate. "Fernand!" she said in her husky voice, savoring
the sound of the name. "I may call you Fernand, may I not? 7 * she
asked proudly and fondly, and it was the first time she had addressed
him so intimately. "I've never done it with a grand gentleman before,"
she added dreamily.

It was time for her to go home, but she lingered. Femand was
different from Nicolas; he was her friend as well as her lover, and
she wanted to talk to him. In her clumsy way she tried to explain
to him that she was not bad. Jean-Jacques was a noble character, a
saint, but he just wasn't a man. He was handicapped by his ailment
Even when he was young that was so long ago he had kept
away from her for months, sometimes as long as a year; he would
lie beside her as lif eless as a stick of wood. She had a right to a man;
even her mother, for all her strictness, recognized that.

Fernand listened in silence. Therese began again. "And then the
children," she said. "He ought not to have done that."

Fernand forgot that he had just lain with this woman. She no
longer existed for him; nothing existed but the Confessions. He was
seized with a boundless desire to learn the truth, the whole truth. Of
course, what Jean-Jacques had written was the truth, but it was
only a part of the truth; it would not be the whole truth until he
found out what Therese knew and felt.

His mouth dry, he asked, "Is it really true that he took the chil-
dren away from you?" Therese answered evenly, "Everybody knows
that." "All five children?" Fernand persisted. Surprised, Therese
asked, "Five? What makes you say five? Two."

Fernand was thunderstruck. Had Jean-Jacques lied? Had he lied
in the most truthful book in the world the book with which he
intended to present himself at the Last Judgment?

Therese meanwhile went on, "Twice was rotten enough for me.

77

It was nothing to him. They were my children." Very softly, Fernand
asked, "They weren't his?" In her placid voice she said, "What's that?
I can't hear you." With an effort he repeated, somewhat louder, "They
weren't his children?" Therese answered, "No. Not really/ 7 Femand,
with tremendous self-command, continued, "And did he know it?"
Therese said, "I suppose so. Otherwise he wouldn't have been so
mean."

It was a rather dark night. Fernand could not see Therese; he only
heard her placid voice. And in his mind he saw the firm, graceful
handwriting of the Confessions, the letters standing out black and
clear against the ivory paper, telling that story candidly, with a con-
vincing air of conviction, setting forth cogent reasons why Jean-
Jacques had had to act just so. And the story was all a lie. 'Other-
wise he wouldn't have been so mean/ This stupid, lifeless voice was
speaking the truth, and the whole magnificent edifice of principles,
emotions, and confessions came crashing to the ground.

Fernand was furious with the Master. But he checked his fury.
It was not quite so simple as he wished to make it Jean-Jacques had
not lied. A man writing with such overwhelming frankness for pos-
terity, for the Supreme Being, must be saying what he profoundly
believed. With her simple mind Therese speaks her simple truth.
But many motives combine to produce an action, and at the root of
every action base and noble reasons are inextricably mingled. There
is no truth which does not consist of many truths.

There they sit on the grassy bank under the willow tree, on Jean-
Jacques's bank, and Therese betrays Jean-Jacques, and Fernand
betrays Jean-Jacques; they combine to betray him. For one moment
Fernand feels himself justified, in the next he despises himself again.
And out of it all he gets a bitter, voluptuous, remorseful satisfaction.

In the darkness Therese said plaintively and fondly, "There is no
one else I can talk to, not even my mother." 'Not even the stableboy?'
Fernand wondered. But as if in the simplicity of her mind she had
divined his thought, she went on, "With you I can talk about any-
thing I like, Fernand. You are my only friend, Fernand."

78

Chapter 15 Cave Canem

AT HER NEXT meeting with Nicolas, Therese got up enough courage
to tell him that she had spoken to her mother, and that her mother
did not propose to touch Jean-Jacques's writings.

Nicolas's face darkened. "You don't seem to have been particularly
clever about it, madame." He attempted an ironic tone.

Then he burst out, "Your head is full of chaff. You're so stupid, it
stinks; what's the use of trying to tell a brainless female like you
what to do?" Offended, Therese said, "You've known from the start,
Monsieur Nicolas, that I'm no philosopher." After a pause she added,
"My mother says that if you've got anything to say to her, you're to
say it yourself." "That would be the last straw," Nicolas grumbled.

But when he was alone he thought the matter over. Delay was
dangerous. Any day some other schemer might get hold of the papers,
or some fool of an aristocratic idealist might stick his finger in the
pie. He had no choice; he would have to go and talk to the old wo-
man himself. After all, it was to her advantage to come to an under-
standing with him.

He went to Madame Levasseur when he was sure he would find
her alone, and asked permission to discuss frankly the issues between
them. The old woman scrutinized him with her hard little eyes.
"There's nothing between us as far as I'm concerned," she said, "but
if you think anything will come of it, say your piece."

"With your sharp eyes, madame," Nicolas explained, "you have
undoubtedly noticed that there is something between your daughter
and your humble servant. My heart went out to Madame Rousseau,
so to speak, it was a coup de foudre, as they say in this country, and
I am proud and happy that my humble, persistent wooing has
brought your daughter around." "I'm an old woman," Madame Le-
vasseur answered, "and unfortunately not strong enough to bash your
head in as you deserve." Nicolas smiled amiably. "You misunderstand
the situation, rnadame," he said. "You underestimate your daughter's
affection for your humble servent, and you underestimate my Bri-

79

tish doggedness. I don't want anything improper; on the contrary,
I should like to legalize the relationship between Madame Rousseau
and myself/ 7 He rose to his feet and bowed. "I have the honor,
madame," he said, "to ask your daughter's hand in marriage." The
old woman said dryly, "My daughter is already married, as you may
have heard." "Madame," Nicolas said, "you force me to put the cards
on the table. You see, I've always been able to tell at a glance when
one of my horses is on the way out, and believe me, Monsieur the
Philosopher isn't good for much longer. When a man has philoso-
phized so hard for sixty-six years, he can't have much stamina left.
Here I am. As a serious suitor and the philosopher's obvious succes-
sor, I feel it is no more than my duty to settle things in good time
that is to say now with my future mama-in-law."

"You're barking up the wrong tree, monsieur," said Madame Levas-
seur with good-humored scorn. "My son-in-law is temperate; staying
here lias done wonders for his health; and Therese and I take the
best care of him. These frail-looking people are always tough. Our
Jean- Jacques will last a long while yet, never fear."

"Very well," repied Nicolas. "If you want to have it so, well drop
the question of your son-in-law's health for the time being. But I am
devoted to your daughter, and what's more I'm naturally inquisitive.
Permit me a question, madame. Why is it that Monsieur the Philoso-
pher hasn't had a new book out for so long? I hear he's been hard at
work, and the whole world is waiting for his next book. And there's
plenty of money to be got out of such stuff. How is it that a sensible
woman like yourself won't saddle that horse?" "A plain question
deserves a plain answer," the old woman declared cheerfully. "For
certain philosophical reasons which are too exalted for me and cer-
tainly for you too, my son-in-law does not want to have his new
works published before his lamented demise. He does not want to.
Do you understand? And that's the end of it. Period," She continued
complacently, "There's no money to be made out of those papers.
Get the idea out of your head once and for all, young manl There's
not a sou in this house that will find its way into your pocket."

*Tou seem to distrust me," Nicolas said sadly. "But I can under-
stand it I know human nature, and I can see the way you think,
madame. *A penniless fellow/ you reckon, *a lackey, a domestic;
what sort of prospects would my daughter and I have with anyone
like that?* But as it happens your humble servant has got prospects.
Fm something more than just a lackey. I used to be head trainer at

80

Mister Tattersall's in London. That may mean nothing to you,
madame, but it means a lot to the grand gentlemen in Paris." He
described his scheme to her and then declared, "All I need is a little
capital to start with about two hundred louis. Of course I could
raise the money elsewhere, but as I've already told you, I feel a cer-
tain attachment to your daughter and would like to let you both in
on the transaction. You smile, madame, you distrust me as much as
ever. But I guarantee your money will multiply. Just one year's
profits should fix the three of us up for life."

The old woman listened with interest. The fellow reminded her
of her son, Sergeant Frangois. He had the same dashing line of talk,
and on top of that he probably had more gumption,

Nicolas perceived at once that he was on a more promising tack.
"Have a little faith in me," he pleaded. "You won't regret it. It's a
shame how wretchedly you live here. Monsieur the Philosopher may
be keen on Nature and poverty, but Fm sure you're not so philosophi-
cally inclined yourself, madame." He warmed up, spoke excitedly.
"There the papers lie. A clever lady like you should be able to find
some way of making two hundred louis on them. Put the money into
my business, and I give you my word as a man of honor, a judge of
horses, and a Britisher that 111 marry Madame Rousseau and well
all live like the Lord God in Paris."

But Madame Levasseur's interest in the glib schemer had already
evaporated. This fellow Nicolas was not her son Francois, and she
was not inclined to share Therese with him. But she had realized
how much her man-crazy Therese depended on him, and the crea-
ture was capable of any underhanded trick. With Therese's help he
might steal Jean-Jacques's papers, or make some other dirty deal.
Therefore she must not stir him up, must not be too obvious about
turning him down.

In a businesslike way she explained to him that it would be impos-
sible to exploit the manuscripts behind Jean- Jacques's back. Before
the buyers risked any hard cash they would turn up in person and
ask Jean-Jacques if he approved of the transaction; written state-
ments, no matter how good they looked, were not enough. "Don't
sit there like a lost sheep," she consoled Nicolas when she saw his
gloomy, disappointed face. "I'm not saying no to your plans. But
don't be so hasty, young man. The papers won't lose their value,
and they're as safe with me as a penny in the good Lord's pocket."
Nicolas gave up trying to change Madame Levasseur's mind. If you

81

got too close to the old mare she was likely to kick out.

He did his best to put on a more agreeable expression. But the
old woman, sensing his rage, went on placating him. "You ought not
to wish for my dear son-in-law's demise. Besides the deep sorrow
Therese and I would feel, it would be a severe financial blow. Let
me tell you, he still writes like a youngster. When what he calls his
inspiration is on him, his pen gallops along, and before you know it
there's a new manuscript and his estate is worth eight or ten thou-
sand louis more. Only a fool would want the goose that lays the
golden eggs to pass away."

"I understand," said Nicolas, "and I accept the fact that for the
time being you do not wish to legalize the relationship between your
daughter and me. But I never give a thing up," he went on with a
good pretense of cheerfulness. *Tm the kind that sticks to a job,"

TLefs have a drink on that," said Madame Levasseur. She fetched
the apricot liqueur which the Marquis had sent down to the house.
They clinked glasses, drank, and parted amicably, not unlike a pair
of thieves.

But Madame Levasseur had not drunk away her fear of the dan-
gerous young man. As soon as she shut the door behind him, her
expression became gloomy and hostile.

Nor had Nicolas washed down his anger with that excellent
brandy. The old jade couldn't fool him. She was his enemy; she
would do anything to keep him from getting at the papers and set-
ting up his stables. But she'd miss her guess. He spat noisily in his
rage.

To add to his irritation, Lady, the bitch, now sprang out at him
once more, barking furiously. Modulating his voice with an effort, he
called out that he was Nicolas, the Marquis's servant. Jean-Jacques
was heard calling the dog off. But after the animal backed away
Nicolas cursed ferociously, in English, his low voice full of savage
anger.

When Jean- Jacques left the house for his early-morning walk not
many days later, he found Lady's kennel empty. He shook his head.
Only once before had she failed to wait for him.

At noon the animal still had not appeared, and he fell into a panic.
There was no question about it: this was the doing of his old enemies,
Grimm and Diderot. They were after him, and to leave him unpro-
tected they had killed the dog, that splendid creature that he had
loved. Oh, it was a vile trick, a stupid act of cruelty! But he kept

82

his forebodings to himself. He managed to control himself all day,
saying nothing of his suspicions to the women. But when the dog
had not turned up the day after, his anxiety, horror, and fury could
no longer be suppressed. "It is Grimm and Diderot!" he ranted. "They
have wormed their way in! More attacks! More persecutions! I
shall never have peace from them. They will do all they can to ruin
me. I am lost, I must fly, I must leave the country! I must go overseas!"

In vain Madame Levasseur tried to quiet him. But next day
Therese brewed a sedative drink, an herb tea, in which he had faith.
He drank it eagerly and asked for a second cup. By evening he had
calmed down. He spoke warmly of how the peace of Ermenonville
agreed with him.

It was Madame Levasseur who was by no means reassured. There
was something to her son-in-law's delusions. Evil was being plotted
against him, though not from the quarter he thought She knew who
had done away with the dog. The seven deadly sins were stamped
on the fellow's brow. There was no limit to what he would do.

He had to be got out of the way.

She went to Girardin. "You know how my son-in-law is, sir," she
began; "being a philosopher he has his quirks, his sudden fits. This
time, I'm sorry to say, he's thrown a fit over Monsieur Nicolas. The
fact is he can't stand him. I'm sure Monsieur Nicolas is a fine young
man, but he had better keep away from the pavilion in the future.*

Girardin had heard rumors of Madame Rousseau's making eyes at
Nicolas. No doubt this was why the old woman wanted to get rid
of him. Girardin was not fond of revising his arrangements, but this
time it was probably the wisest course. "Thank you for informing
me of this, madame," he said somewhat stiffly. "I will place another
servant at your disposal." "Many thanks, sir," the old woman replied,
"but that won't be enough. This fit my son-in-law has thrown over
Monsieur Nicolas is a specially violent one. An antipathy, so to speak
I should like to ask you to remove Monsieur Nicolas from Ermenon-
ville altogether."

The Marquis's expression hardened. He drew himself up straight
and tall and pointed his stick at Madame Levasseur. "Have I under-
stood you aright, madame?" he asked. "You would like me to dis-
miss him?" "I should like you to throw him out, sir," answered
Madame Levasseur.

Involuntarily, a recent experience rose to Girardin's mind. Yet it
was a mere nothing, a fleeting supposition. Inserted into the wall

83

of his bedroom and skillfully concealed behind the paneling was the
keyboard on which hung the master keys of all the many buildings of
his estate. It held well over a hundred keys arranged in an order of
which he alone knew the secret. From time to time he rearranged
them, facing some to the right, some to the left. Twice recently there
had been a minute discrepancy, and he had momentarily imagined
that someone had been tampering with his keyboard. But almost at
once he had told himself that his memory was playing tricks on him.
Then there had been one occasion when he had found Nicolas in
his bedroom at a time when he had no reason to be there. Both
these tiny incidents now returned to him and in spite of himself his
mind linked the two.

Yet it was not fair to condemn an otherwise reliable person on
the basis of vague feelings. His whole nature rebelled against
Madame Levasseur's bold demand. "Nicolas is an experienced and
faithful servant," he said, "Have you anything factual to produce
against him? Has he disobeyed the order not to disturb you at the
pavilion? Has Monsieur Jean-Jacques complained?"

Madame Levasseur was prepared for this question. "As you know,
sir/' she said, "my son-in-law, being a philosopher, does not express
himself in plain words. He says nothing 'factual/ but I can assure
you, sir, the man has his intuitions, and you'd be surprised how he
hits the nail on the head. When the dog Lady disappeared he had
terrific intuitions, It was his enemies from Paris, he raged, and they
had bribed someone from the cMteau. And whom he meant by
'someone from the cMteau* there can hardly be any doubt about
that*

The Marquis, annoyed, did not reply. The old woman pressed on.
"You have to take my son-in-law's philosophy into account, sir. I'm
an old woman with much experience and I can vouch for that. Other-
wise one of these days hell take it into his head to scoot off to Paris,
or even to England. And staying here is doing him so much good.
Why, it's doing us all good. It would be such a pity if all this were
to end just because of Monsieur Nicolas/'

The suggestion of blackmail in these remarks was galling to the
Marquis. He nevertheless recognized that the old woman could
easily make good her threats. Moreover, his memories were coming
into focus the time he had surprised Nicolas in his bedroom,
Nicolas had asked if the Marquis wanted to order the mare La
Temp^te, for the following morning. The request was abnormal. It

84

could perfectly well have waited until after breakfast the next day.

"Nicolas will be removed/' he said.

"I thank you on Jean-Jacques's behalf/' replied the old woman.
Then, bethinking herself of the scoundrel's vindictive nature, she
went on hastily, "One thing more, please: don't on any account let
Monsieur Nicolas think that my son-in-law is behind this. He'd go
talking about it in the village, and it would come back to my son-in-
law. Jean- Jacques is so easily upset, he'd get frantic all over again."

That very day the Marquis talked with Nicolas. He said he was
sorry that he had given him false hopes. He had finally given up his
plan for a big stud. He could no longer ask Nicolas to stay on. He
would be paid a full year's wages and was free to return to London.

Nicolas sized up the situation at once. So the old mare had raised
a kick. But he kept his head and gave the whole situation a quick
thinking over.

The amount which the Marquis was offering him in compensation
was no chicken-shit. He was pretty sure that the gentleman, who
plainly had a bad conscience, could be held up for the two hundred
louis that Nicolas needed for the riding establishment. But there was
more than two hundred in the affair with Therese. There was a for-
tune in that. He wasn't going to be leaving the fool's papers to that
old bitch. No, by God, he would pay the fat old fart-in-the-bottle
back for this trick, and with interest. All he needed was time, and
his chance was bound to come.

"I thought I'd been satisfactory, milord," he said in English, very
hurt and on his dignity. "But it is for you to command." "I have no
criticism to make of you, Mr. Bally," replied the Marquis with evi-
dent discomfort, "but I did not think it right to keep you any longer
from the profession you like so well." "As you are so kindly disposed
toward me," said Nicolas, "I wonder if I might ask two favors which
would make leaving easier." "Speak out, Nicolas," answered Mon-
sieur de Girardin, relapsing into French. Nicolas explained, "There's
not much chance of Mr. Tattersall taking me back, since I left him.
That means that it may be some time before I find another place in
London. May I wait on here in Ermenonville until something comes
through?" "Certainly," said the Marquis. "Furthermore," Nicolas
'proceeded, "it would stand against me in obtaining a good position
if it were known that I was dismissed from here. I'd find a place
much easier if for the time being nothing were said about my dis-
missal."

85

Glad to have put this disagreeable task behind him, the Marquis
agreed to both requests.

Chapter 16 Friend and Foe

WHEN IT BECAME evident to Madame Levasseur that that scoundrel
Nicolas was still swaggering about in Ermenonville in spite of what
the Marquis had promised her, she was disappointed and indignant.
Of course she knew that if it suited their book, noblemen broke their
word just like ordinary folk. But the Marquis was a philosopher and
one of her son-in-law's disciples. She would not have expected such
two-faced dealings from him.

There was no telling what fresh knavery this fellow Nicolas was
dreaming up. And Ther^se, the silly goose, was hopelessly gone on
him. Jean-Jacques, the fool, whose health was not nearly as robust as
she had tried to make that rascally Britisher believe, was apt to kick
off anytime. Then Nicolas would have his claws on Therese and on
the papers as well.

That fellow's hash had to be settled once and for all. She set about
figuring out some other scheme.

She was deeply in awe of everythmg legal and lawyerish sealed
and notarized papers had been used to drive her out of her house and
her business in Orleans. She had learned much from that. Now she
knew the dodges and she would put them to use herself. She would
fix up some sort of legal paper by which Th6r&se could manage her
property only with her mother's approval That way the papers would
be out of that robber's reach. Let him see what he could do then.

She was perfectly open in explaining to Th^r^se that her signature
would be needed on a paper to protect the money from that lout of
hers. "It's no business of yours how I work it/* she declared, "You
wouldn't understand if I did tell you. When everything's ready youll
just come to the royal notary with me and sign. And I wouldn't be
telling my Nicolas all about it, either." Th^r^se looked sulky, but she

86

was glad that her clever mother had taken the matter in hand. She
was deliciously frightened of her Nicolas and perfectly aware that he
could get anything he wanted out of her.

Ermenonville, however, was not the best place in the world for
Madame Levasseur's plan. She needed an experienced lawyer and no-
tary to draw up a document which would be proof against Nicolas's
schemes. She would have preferred to go to Paris, but the sharp-eyed
fellow would have seen that something was up. She learned that there
was a clever lawyer in Senlis; but the man had unfortunately gone
away for two or three weeks. With a sigh she set herself to wait for
his return.

If Nicolas's doings had caused deep anxiety to old Madame Le-
vasseur, the disappearance of the dog had thrown Fernand into a
turmoil. He felt himself to blame for this blow against the- Master.
His despicable affair with Therese had aroused Nicolas's malice. Now
the Master was in danger, and he, Fernand, had brought this danger
upon him.

He avoided Jean- Jacques, feeling afraid of him. He even avoided
the company of his father and Monsieur Gerber as well as he could.
He did not want to converse and he feared being questioned. He went
about brooding, miserable.

To escape the tension, he began to go more often to the village.

As a child he had been there a good deal, in accordance with his
fathe/s wishes. It had never been easy to get the village children to
accept him as an equal, and the time that he spent at the Military
Academy had widened the gulf between his old playfellows and him-
self. Nevertheless he had kept up his friendship with them and took
a sympathetic interest in their concerns. Now more than ever he felt
his need for their rough, simple companionship.

Of a different order was the friendship he had with one Martin
Catrou, son of the widow Catrou who kept the general store in the
village. Martin was a sturdy young man just Fernand's age. He ran
errands for his mother and sometimes he even went to Paris, where,
as at home, he looked and listened, had a keen eye for men and affairs,
and drew his own conclusions. Martin's rough and ready intelligence
and shrewd common sense were unlike anything Fernand was
used to. He was interested, repelled, attracted. Martin liked to tease
him and point up his aristocratic weaknesses. His jibes were provok-
ing, yet Fernand took them in good part and tried to understand the
other's point of view.

87

Now, during this unhappy period, he met Martin. "And what is
your saint up to these days?" Martin asked. The grin on his. friend's
plain, shrewd face, and the flippancy of his words, seemed to Fernand
to typify all the mockery of Jean-Jacques's enemies. "Leave Jean-
Jacques out of it," he said, and tried to seem bland. "You don't under-
stand him/' "Why not?" Martin said defiantly. "I see him often enough.
The old man's one of my mother's best customers, and I have eyes in
my head!"

Fernand saw that Martin meant to pick a quarrel and tried to
smooth matters over. "I'm sure you understand most people very
well," he remarked. "But kindly leave Jean-Jacques to me." Martin
however, kept to his line. "They say in Paris, all you have to do to be
a great philosopher is to play the fool. And that's right up his alley."

It was painful to Fernand to think that he himself sometimes
doubted Jean-Jacques, thinking that the Master's own words were
out of tune with his actions. He felt a bit of a hypocrite as he scolded
Martin. "You're an ungrateful bunch," he said indignantly. "He's de-
voted his life to proclaiming the equality of man. He has endured
endless persecution for you, and all he gets for thanks is that you
call him a fool/' Martin sat there, a robust, thickset figure. He thrust
his head forward; his black hair grew low on his broad forehead.
"Yes liberty, equality, fraternity," he mocked, and the words as
he spoke them sounded hollow and meaningless. "They've a fine
sound, like juicy roast duck. But they're just hot air and nonsense.
Let him tell us how we're to get this freedom of his with the gen-
darmes and tax-collectors and aristocrats and lawyers all around. That
other one, Voltaire, now he really did something for us. He let you
fellows know that you had gone too far with your villainous; tribunals.
And he had his own people taught something practical, something
to bring in money. But did your precious Jean-Jacques ever teach
one single useful thing? Did he ever, for instance, say anything
sensible about taxes, tolls, and so on?"

Jean- Jacques's words, 1 have worked in vain,' rose forcibly to Fer-
nancTs mind. But immediately he thought of America and her fight for
freedom and was about to use this as an argument. But Martin went
on: "He jabbers about the millennium. Just like Father Gauchet. And
that's why you aristocrats are so keen on him. For this way you can
show that your heart is with us lowly folk and can hang on to what
you've got with a good conscience. No, Voltaire's the boy for us."

Fernand held himself in check. Calmly he retorted, "You might

88

try reading one of his books with those sharp eyes of yours before
you talk such rot." Martin was as complacent as ever. "I don't need
to read his book/' he answered. 'It's enough to take a look at the
fellow. He moons around the village, so that you'd think he was
walking on clouds instead of our muddy village street. He doesn't
see two steps in front of him, I tell you." Then as Fernand merely
shrugged his shoulders and stood up, Martin grew even more specific.
"He can't even see what's going on inside his own four walls, that
saint of yours. His wife likes her bit of fun, they say, but he doesn't
notice a thing."

At this Fernand lost control of himself. He was perfectly aware that
he was no match for Martin, but he threw himself at him, just as he
had done when they were boys together. Martin fended him off, casu-
ally at first, but more roughly when Fernand went on fighting. It
ended with Fernandas being soundly thrashed,

He went home, deeply humiliated. What right had he to take
umbrage at Martin's remarks? What Martin said was nothing com-
pared to the indecency of his own actions.

Nevertheless Martin's chatter stuck in his mind. There was a kernel
of truth in it. This wisest of men was indeed blind, a bit insincere
and a bit of the fool. He hated to think so, and yet there it was. There
were the things he had read about in the Confessions, and the things
simple-minded Therese had told him and simple people had ob-
served; and they just did not fit together.

Fernand felt he was no longer competent to deal with these gnawing
doubts.

It was not his way to pour out his troubles to others, but this would
not be the first time that Monsieur Gerber had proved himself a
friend. During the bad years at the Military Academy Fernand had
received help and consolation from his tutor during his short leaves
home. Monsieur Gerber had been able to understand everything from
the slightest allusion and to respond with just the right words.

Cautiously Fernand told his tutor of his doubts concerning Jean-
Jacques. He hinted that his words and his behavior did not always
tally with his writings and teaching. He hinted of his own bewilder-
ment.

There was a short silence before Monsieur Gerber replied. He too
spoke in cautious terms: "Jean- Jacques's enemies judge him with their
own mediocre logic. They compare an earlier statement of his with a
later one, compare something he may have done or not done at some

89

time of his life with, the ideals that he preaches anything to poke
cheap fun at him."

Fernand knew that his friend and tutor was not saying this in re-
proof. Certainly Femand could not be classed with Jean-Jacques's
enemies and he was on the point of bursting out with this when Mon-
sieur Gerber went on, "Occasionally I am fortunate enough to be
vouchsafed a talk with Jean-Jacques, unimportant though I am. I con-
fess that I too have been bewildered by a lack of measure in him, an
extravagance of thought and feeling. But then I realize that I cannot
grasp him in his entirety, for none of us can. Then I feel chastened
and humble. You must not permit yourself to doubt him, Fernand!
Genius is something so indefinable, so intangible that it crumbles to
nothing at the first breath of doubt." He grew quite excited for a man
of his reserve as he continued, "And among all our contemporaries
Jean-Jacques is the only genius. The others go to a lot of trouble,
patching and fussing. He puts things down with one stroke; he
creates. He does not prove things, he reveals them. The others inch
along, with infinite toil and fret. He takes wing and flies. Don't
worry yourself, Fernand, over this word or that which is beyond our
understanding. Do not doubt him!"

Fernand had never heard his tutor speak so passionately. His con-
viction, his idealism were an echo of Jean-Jacques's own. Fernand
was ashamed of his disloyalty in face of the older man's reverence.

But it was only for a short time that Monsieur Gerber's words
helped him. Once more he found himself going about in conflict
and distress.

Then came the news that Gilberte was returning in two days. Fer-
nand sighed with relief. He decided to confess everything to her. He
was sure her radiant presence would make everything bright.

Gilberte had had a thoroughly good time. Both in Saint- Vigor and
Paris, she had been besieged by young men, who vied with each other
in gallantry. Her most serious suitor was Mathieu, the twenty-five-
year-old Baron de Vassy who was also the heir of the aged Henri,
Count de Courcelles. Mathieu was handsome and exquisite in his
manners. His attentions had a clearly serious tone, and Gilberte's
grandfather liked to tease her by pointing out that here, too, was a
speedy way to catch a title with the honorable patina of age in place
of her own still raw one. Without taking the young Duke's wooing
seriously, Gilberte had nevertheless got considerable pleasure out of
it.

90

Life in Paris was certainly veiy different from life in Ermenonville.
Things took on another meaning, so that Gilberte felt she had learned
a great deal in a few weeks she had become older and wiser by
years. She tested Jean-Jacques's ideas against reality and found some
of them distinctly naive. At times, for all her youth, she felt herself
far more sophisticated than the famous old philosopher.

In one respect Fernand had been right these creatures of the
Court circle and the Paris salons were affected through and through.
They had a positive dread of showing their feelings, as though that
would be unworthy of men of the world. Even Mathieu had done his
courting in such oblique, roundabout ways that she had scarcely been
able to keep from laughing. In the midst of a brilliant reception she
would think of Femand, and would be forced to smile, but not un-
kindly. She missed him greatly, his clumsy, boyish frankness, his im-
petuosity, his enthusiasms, the sincerity of his feelings.

And now she was back in Latour and he saw her again. She was
wearing powder and beauty patches. She had become thinner; some
of the rosy color was gone from her cheeks. But she still had her
shining eyes, her wide, smiling mouth, her honest, straightforward
loveliness. And in her turn she looked at him and there was her bean-
stalk of a Fernand, with the prominent Adam's apple, the unruly hair,
and the shy and yet ardent eyes. Away flew his doubts and miseries,
away flew her worldly wisdom. They took each other by the hand
and kissed, shyly at first, then long and deep.

Gilberte began to talk. Nothing of any moment. She broke off with
a laugh. "Ten times a day there were things I simply had to tell you
about, and now I can't think of one. Tell me your news first," she
begged.

She thought she knew what he would tell her. She had been touched
and amused when she read his long emotional letters; she expected
to hear something similar now, something confused, touching, faintly
absurd.

But the gaiety quickly left her face. She recognized at once that the
liaison he was describing, his entanglement with Madame Rousseau,
was no casual affair. It was something sinister, menacing. Fernand
talked with an effort, breaking off frequently and stammering as he
groped for the exact words, the truthful phrase. He spoke like a soul
in torment But Gilberte paid no attention to that. All she saw was
that here was a new Fernand, a Fernand who had wronged her and
her love. She was chilled, almost repelled by him.

91

He was breathing hard, and for some time he was unable to go on.
Gilberte did nothing to make it easier; she sat motionless, asking no
questions, staring at her hands which rested in her lap. There was an
oppressive silence.

At last Fernand resumed. He told her candidly about his surrep-
titious reading of the Confessions, how he would sneak into the
pavilion and pry among Jean-Jacques's sordid secrets while Th6rese
sat close by, unsuspecting, stupid, depraved and seductive. He said
that by his own testimony Jean- Jacques fully recognized Th^r&se's
dullness and stupidity; there had never been any spiritual communion
between her and the Master. Fernand went on to tell what he knew
personally of her affair with that repulsive stableboy. He spoke of
how he loathed Th&r&se and yet could not tear himself away from her.

Gilberte's eyes darkened; furrows appeared on her clear brow, and
her large mouth shut in a severe line. This person before her was no
longer a boy; he was a grown man bearing the taint which she sup-
posed went with being a man. She had longed to see Fernand the boy.
How she felt about this man, she could not tell.

He had stopped talking about himself and now spoke of the new
Jean-Jacques whom he had discovered in the Confessions. Here he
was no longer inhibited; words flowed passionately as he defended
the Master. Fernand labored to show her what a great man Jean-
Jacques was just because he did not try to conceal any of his weak-
nesses. Terrible suffering was the price Jean- Jacques had had to pay
for this tremendous work.

Gilberte only half listened. She was fearfully wrought up by what
Femand had told her of his connection with Th&r&se.

But suddenly she stiffened and paid attention. For now Fernand
was describing how Jean- Jacques had abandoned his children and
why. Here was something that Gilberte felt concerned herself.

It so happened that barely two weeks ago the Comtesse de Mont-
p^raux had been taking gifts to the Paris orphanage and had invited
Gilberte and some other young ladies and gentlemen to go with her.
This orphanage, the Hospice des Enfants-Trouves, was regarded as
one of the sights of Paris. During the drive there someone explained
to Gilberte why the ladies and gentlemen found the place of such
special interest. It still happened that young gallants pressed for
money would have their illegitimate offspring brought to the orphan-
age; and on these tours of inspection there would be merry guessing
games as to whether this or that child were related to one of the visi-

92

tors. So they had done this time, too. Rightly or wrongly, however,
Gilberte had felt hurt and had suspected them of alluding to her own
questionable origins, her noblesse bdtarde. She had stood looking
with mixed feelings at the niche where newborn babes were left Be-
hind it there was a sliding panel, and there was also a bell so that the
person bringing the infant could announce its arrival before slipping
away. Perhaps seventeen years ago someone had toyed with the
thought of disposing of Gilberte herself in this niche. The visit to the
orphanage had scarcely been a pleasant experience.

Listening to Fernandas description of Jean-Jacques's crime, the
painful memory returned with renewed force. While he was telling
her about himself and Therese she had kept silent, but now she burst
out, "Why, he's a monster, this Jean- Jacques of yours!"

Fernand had not expected any such reaction. He swallowed hard.
"You mustn't say that, Gilberte," he murmured at last

But Gilberte's thoughts had already turned from Jean-Jacques.
What did she care about Jean-Jacques? The issue between Fernand
and herself was what counted now. She saw him nervously clenching
and unclenching his hands, waiting for her to speak hands that had
pawed that woman. While she, with gallantries being lavished upon
her by the handsome young men at Saint- Vigor, had been longing
for him, he had been wallowing with this disgusting creature. She felt
herself degraded, ridiculous. Her normally happy expression grew
darker still. She started to speak, but feeling that a word spoken in
the first flush of her anger might be fateful for them both, she held
her peace.

Fernand sat tense and frightened. The hard trial of confession was
behind him. He had not spared himself; he had told no lies and con-
cealed nothing. And now it was up to Gilberte to acquit him or con-
demn him. He scrutinized her face and saw a Gilberte he had never
known. This Gilberte was adult, knowing, by no means friendly in
fact angry. But with pleasure and alarm he realized that he loved this
new Gilberte even more than the childish, gay girl he had known.

But abruptly his mood shifted and now he desired her as he had
sometimes desired Therese, with wicked lust. He felt an urge to de-
grade Gilberte, to trample on her purity, her accursed innocence, to
drag her down into his own filth.

Still she said nothing. He could no longer bear it; he went up to
her and tried to take her hand. Involuntarily she withdrew her hand
and moved away from him.

93

It was plain that she had sensed what he was feeling. He was
ashamed to the core. She condemned him.

She perceived his misery. It served him right. She longed to say
something wounding to him, to tell him how vile he was. And she
also longed to say something kind to him, something consoling. She
did not know what she wanted.

"Excuse me, Feraand," she said at last, "y u must go now. I must
take all this in and see where I stand. Give me time. I would rather
not see you for a few days."

Chapter 17 Opus UMmum

JEAN-JACQUES HAD always felt at his best in the society of common
folk, peasants and ordinary townspeople. After Lady's disappearance
he took to visiting the neighboring villages more often, to talk with
simple, wholesome people. He chatted with them about their every-
day affairs, and if the conversation went on very long he would
give them tobacco to compensate them for the loss of working time.
The peasants and small-holders regarded this man, whom their
seigneur treated as a superior and who nonetheless dealt with them
as an equal among equals, as being 'off his rocker.' But they soon
noticed to their delight that his craziness was useful to them. He
brought their complaints before the Marquis; the seigneur tempered
his military harshness and used his stick less often on his peasants.
At Jean-Jacques's urging he even dropped his long-standing opposi-
tion to the marriage of a cottager's daughter, and gave his permis-
sion. The girl's grandmother henceforth prayed daily for 'Monsieur
Rousseau tiie scribe', although he was not a Catholic,

And although not a Catholic, he was fond of a chat with Father
Gauchet. They paced back and forth, Jean-Jacques speaking of the
blessings of tolerance, the priest railing at the Marquis's stubborn and
difficult character. Or Jean-Jacques would hail the grandeur and
multifariousness of Nature, while the priest praised Nature's Creator,
and they got on well with one another.

94

Jean- Jacques even took part in the villagers' games; lie bowled and,
in spite of his shortsightedness practiced archery. On Sundays there
was dancing to the music of fife and bagpipes, and one time when
Dame Ganeval invited the Master to dance he did not have to be
urged twice, and circled round with the best.

He was often to be seen in the garden of The Chestnuts. Sitting
at one of the bare wooden tables over a pint of the dark amber wine,
he would revel in the sight of the rustic flower beds and amuse him-
self feeding the ducks or the fish in the small pond. He would listen
patiently to Goodman Maurice's idle chatter and give his time freely
to any patron who wanted to converse with him,

It was here at the inn that he heard of the death of Voltaire, his
great colleague, friend, and foe. Goodman Maurice told him the news;
Maurice already knew all about it. Actually, Voltaire had been killed
by the Parisians' tumultuous enthusiasm. After many years in exile he
had at the age of eighty-three returned to his native city, and Paris
had greeted him by weeks of wild ovations, which he had not been
strong enough to stand.

Shock, deep sorrow, and a trace of satisfaction passed in swift suc-
cession across Jean-Jacques's expressive face. Those Parisians had
persecuted him, Jean-Jacques, as fanatically, as frantically as they had
honored Voltaire; perhaps but Jean- Jacques did not allow himself to
formulate this that had been one of the reasons why he had left the
city right after Voltaire's arrival.

Goodman Maurice, garrulously indignant, described how the Arch-
bishop's hatred had dogged the great fighter and philosopher even in
death. Voltaire had been refused Christian burial. In order to prevent
his corpse from being thrown into the carrion pit, his family had to
smuggle it hurriedly out of Paris by weird and undignified ruses.

As he listened to this, the expression on Jean-Jacques's face
changed to pure sympathy and indignation. He remembered his own
feud with the Archbishop and how his books had repeatedly been
ripped apart and burned by the executioner and how he himself had
been hounded hither and yon and driven out of the country and across
the sea. He forgot the venomous hatred with which Voltaire had pur-
sued him; he felt himself as the dead man's friend and comrade; the
offenses against Voltaire were blows against himself.

He felt the need for solitude, and took his leave. But at the garden
gate he encountered Father Gauchet, who at once began to talk, over-
brimming with spite and triumph, about Voltaire. "I hear/' he exulted,

95

"that that heretic, atheist, and blasphemer has given up the ghost in
despair." Usually Jean-Jacques took the energetic priest's blunt re-
marks in good part. But today, identifying himself with the slandered
philosopher, he responded angrily, "How dare you call this great man
godless, Father? Go through his works and you will discover a hun-
dred passages that demonstrate his reverence for the Supreme Being."

Jean-Jacques hurried off to the peace and solitude of the park. At
the edge of the wild grove he sat down on one of the moss-covered
tree stumps. Across the meadow they were building his cMlet;
muffled sounds of work in progress reached him.

Now that he no longer felt called upon to defend the dead man, his
sympathy gave way to resentment. This very old man who had just
died had wronged him, made fun of him, set the forces of stupidity
and arbitrary violence yapping at his back out of sheer envy. And
wholly without cause, for he had lived grandly in glory, riches, and
good fortune. Jean-Jacques's own gifts and fame had been dimmed by
Voltaire's genius, wit, and mockery; the world had acclaimed Voltaire
as the supreme embodiment of art and knowledge.

Yet he had been living proof of that truth which Jean- Jacques pro-
claimed: that art and knowledge lead only to corruption. For Jean-
Jacques, generously defending his dead adversary, had lied when he
assured the priest that Voltaire had been a believer. Voltaire had not
been a believer. He had been a poor devil, vicious, malignant, restless,
an evil to himself and the world. He had been all intellect, had had
no soul.

And now he lay enveloped in utter darkness.

Jean-Jacques's gnawing imagination pictured the darkness sur-
rounding the dead man's corrupting corpse. The sunlit rim of the
grove and the sloping, rising meadow were drained of light as he
thought of the nocturnal void enclosing the dead Voltaire. The sum-
mery white clouds spread out gray and threatening, the murmuring of
the breeze became a dreary keening, the noises of the work at the ch-
let sounded dull and hollow, as if someone were thumping the lid of a
coffin. Everything round about breathed decay.

Jean-Jacques jerked himself out of his reverie. The hammering over
at the ch&let rang out as it had before, clear, strong, and reassuring.
They were building him a house over there. He was alive, and a set-
ting for a worthy and peaceful old age was being prepared for him.

He turned his thoughts away from his dead friend-foe and contin-
ued to meditate, in a mood of gentle, floating melancholy, upon death.

96

He knew what it was to die; he had died many times, sweetly and
painlessly, failing like a light, fading out like a note of music; he had
died when he wrote the lines in which his Julie died. He knew there
was nothing terrible about death.

Then, against his will, he went back to his contention with Voltaire.
Voltaire had only himself to blame for the abuse that was being
hurled at him. He had been witty and had employed his wit only to
draw a distorted picture of the world. He fashioned everything in his
own image: petty, vain, and spiteful. He had been content to be a
great author and after all, what was there in that?

No one knew better than Jean-Jacques himself how little that
amounted to. He had always felt his fame to be a sheer burden. When
he left Paris he had rejoiced that he could retire into peace and need
not write any more books.

But now that his rival was dead and he was the only great writer
left in the world, was it not his duty to place one more stone on the
edifice? He had already written of his struggle and his insights; must
he not write one last book, the book of his peace and resignation?

As he walked home, sentences started forming in his mind. He spoke
them aloud, turning them and shaping them, taking pleasure in their
cadences.

As soon as he reached the pavilion he began to write. Through the
open window he could hear the soughing of the wind, the rustling of
the trees, the murmur of the brook Nonette. The twittering of the
birds outside mingled with the trilling of his own canary bird: he
wrote. Wrote upon fine gilt-edged paper for he loved fine writing
paper, wrote firm, graceful characters, smiled as he wrote. The words
flowed easily from his pen.

The work took hold of him; he was obsessed by it. Wherever he
was he was working, shaping, creating. He did not eat; he slept little;
he worked.

So possessed was he that he did not notice how Fernand continued
to avoid him. One day when Fernand unexpectedly encountered him
in the garden, he was so bemused with himself and his work that he
remained unaware of the young man's uneasiness. "What do you
think, Fernand," he cried, Tm writing again, fm writing about my
walks and my reveries/'

Fernand was glad that Jean-Jacques did not reproach him, made
not the slightest allusion to his long defection. He even considered
telling Jean- Jacques about his quarrel with Gilberte and saying how

97

hard it was for people to understand each other, no matter how close
they were. Jean- Jacques meanwhile had forgotten that he was there,
he was absorbed in himself, was speaking entirely to himself. "I must
not withhold my unique happiness from others/' he meditated. "I
want everyone to know of those hours of ecstasy and feel them with
me." He went on talking to himself, murmuring, smiling, gesticulating;
obviously he was at work on his book.

Fernand tried to slip quietly away. But Jean-Jacques restrained
him: "No, no, don't go away!" And so Fernand accompanied him
farther as Jean-Jacques made for the clearing in the woods, the open
space with the echo.

There they sat, and Jean-Jacques kept on talking in his deep, quiet
voice. At first Fernand was so preoccupied with his brooding about
Gilberte that he scarcely listened. But slowly Jean-Jacques's words
cast their spell about him; they were music that pierced straight to
his heart. How had the man who had flayed himself alive to record
the fevered events of the Confessions contrived to find such heavenly
peace? Fernand forgot Gilberte, let himself be lulled by Jean- Jacq-
ues's wisdom and sensibility. He shut his eyes and shared the Master's
vision, enjoyed with him the sublimely simple tranquillity of Nature,
entered into his communion with animal and tree.

But gradually into Jean- Jacques's serenity crept the old obsession.
"Let the whole world conspire to persecute me," he mused. "I BO
longer care. I have resigned myself, and repose in the shade of my
suffering, peaceful and hopeless. Sometimes I still wish that the tor-
ments I have suffered might benefit posterity, like the Passion of Soc-
rates or of Jesus of Nazareth. But if my enemies destroy my writings
too, so that my sufferings shall have been in vain, I am resigned even
to that. I renounce everything.

"I am alone in the world/* he went on dreamily. "I have no brother,
no kinsman, no friend, no companion, only myself. Yes," and he stared
unseeingly at Femand, "the most sociable, the friendliest of men is
outlawed by unanimous decree. So I drift on through life, forever
condemned to solitude, peaceful in the bottomless gulf, mortal,
wretched, yet no longer susceptible to any shock like God."

Horror seized Fernand. He stared in fascination at this madman,
this wise man, sitting gentle and sad and motionless, mottled by the
sun and shadow, shaping sentences of rare beauty, unearthing his
heart.

Stillness, hot and threatening, hovered above the clearing. Flies

98

danced in the shimmering air. Jean- Jacques's eyes, his wonderful eyes,
were fixed upon Fernand, seeing him and not seeing him. Those eyes
perceived things no one else saw - near and tangible things they
overlooked. There came to Femand dim recollections of stories he had
been required to learn. The ancients had represented their prophets
as blind: Tiresias was blind, Homer was blind, Oedipus, who solved
the riddle of the Sphinx, had blinded himself.

"I expect nothing any more," Jean- Jacques said to himself. "I live
in the depth and am content. I renounce. With my whole heart I re-
nounce everything/' He fell silent and sat, mild and enchanted, turn-
ing in the treadmill of his madness.

A tumult of thoughts and emotions assailed Fernand: pity, rev-
erence, fright, even a faint impulse to laugh. He could no longer bear
Jean- Jacques's visionary blind eyes, nor the soft, vibrant voice which
now kept saying, "I renounce, I renounce/* He wanted to get up and
leave, but he did not dare.

Jean-Jacques had again fallen silent. He sat on the ground facing
Fernand in the peaceful shadow of his black spruce, and toyed idly
with his stick. It was hot. Neither of them said anything.

Fernand could no longer bear it. He began to speak rapidly and,
perhaps in order to establish a bond between Jean- Jacques and him-
self, he plunged straight into an account of the bad years in the
Military Academy. He described how everyone had made him suffer,
his superiors and his fellow pupils, just because he was the son of the
seigneur of Ermenonville. There had been one man in particular, a
gymnastics teacher, a veteran soldier, a coarse, fat, muscular, pink-
skinned sergeant of about forty, who had hated him and persecuted
him with vicious ingenuity. During class the men had tormented him
with kicks and blows of the fist disguised as 'assistance/ Those had
been two miserable years for Fernand; he had experienced to the full
malevolence and injustice and maltreatment of soul and body. "Mem
are evil," he concluded, helpless, desperate, himself evil.

Jean- Jacques turned his gloriously young, radiant eyes on him.
"Men are evil," he said. "You are right. But man is good. Man is
good!" he repeated fervently, passionately.

Yes, these days he believed in inborn goodness more deeply than
ever before. The summer was unusually fine, the days cloudless but
not too hot, and the excitement and glowing joy in his work persisted.

Ermenonville was blessed. He would stay a long time here, deep
into the winter, perhaps even through the winter, perhaps for the rest

99

of liis life. He would complete his botanical lexicon. And he would
sort out and make a collection of the songs he had set to music in the
past few years.

New plans kept coming to him. He would write a sequel to Emile.
From his walks with Fernand he had learned many new things about
the thoughts and feelings of young people.

It was a pity that Fernand turned up so seldom of late. Probably
the reason was their difference in age; the young man was unable to
enter into the gentle and despairing resignation of a man of sixty-
seven.

Yet at this very time Jean- Jacques was to be given one last proof
of how much, in spite of his age, he still meant to young people.

For on one of these beautiful summer mornings, while he walked
along the lake and had stooped to pluck a flower, a young man sud-
denly came up to him and said, "May I help you? May I carry your
books for you?" Somewhat disconcerted Jean-Jacques asked, "Who
are you? What do you want?" "I am a student, studying law," the
young man replied, "and now that I have seen you \ have nothing
more to seek in Ermenonville. All my dreams are fulfilled."

With gentle irony Jean- Jacques said, "So young and already such
a flatterer?" The stranger blushed all over his face. "I've walked for
ten hours, monsieur/' he defended himself, "not in order to pay you
'Compliments, but to have the happiness of seeing you." Smiling, Jean-
Jacques replied somewhat maliciously, "You cannot impress me with
your ten hours on foot, monsieur. Old as I am, much longer walks
than that don't scare me."

But then he went up close to the young man and peered at him
with his shortsighted eyes. The stranger was very youthful indeed.
He had a broad and determined forehead; his hair was brushed
down over it, and his eyes, which he kept fixed on Joan-Jacques,
glowed with veneration. "You look sincere, young man," Jean-
Jacques said at last. "Don't be offended at my not giving you a
better reception. But I have to protect myself from idle curiosity-
seekers, Paris breaks into my retreat just to view me, to annoy me.
Paris won't let me have a peaceful old age." "Permit me to assure
you' 9 the young man answered respectfully, "that it is not idle curio-
sity which draws us young people to you. We love and admire you
fervently. We need your counsel, need your ideas if we are to live."
"Very well," said Jean-Jacques. *lf you wish, you may accompany
me through the gardens here and we will chat. But you won't hear

100

much about politics, I'm afraid. I'd rather tell you about the flowers
and the trees. You will discover my friend, that botany is the most
delightful of all sciences."

The young man walked with him, asking few questions, listening
attentively.

Finally, feeling that here was a friend, Jean-Jacques spoke of the
matter which never ceased to weigh upon him: how misunderstood
he was; how everything he wrote was twisted and robbed of meaning
and effect; what a hopeless battle he was waging all alone against
the insensitiveness of all the world.

The young man ardently denied this. "You, ineffectual?" he cried
"But you are so close to us! The common people love you! The others

Diderot and Raynal and all the rest of those clever fellows, even
the great Voltaire himself they write for the few. Those gentlemen
don't understand the people, and the people don't understand them.
But everyone understands your language, Master. 'Man is born free

and is everywhere in chains! 7 Anyone can grasp that The others are
spoken of respectfully as Monsieur Voltaire or Monsieur Diderot.
France the whole world calls you Jean-Jacques. No one else has
had that honor. You need your first name only, like the King/' He
broke off. "What a thoughtless comparison! Forgive me. I well know
what you think of kings; your words are stamped indelibly upon my
memory." And he quoted: " It is incontestable that the people set
kings on the throne to protect their freedom, not to destroy it' I
swear to you that we, the youth of France, will see that your words
are transformed into reality, into deeds. You have shown the way:
we, the Jeans and the Jacques, will replace Louis with Jean- Jacques."

Jean- Jacques listened, smiling. "To the trees of Ermenonville you
can say that sort of thing with impunity," he said. "But don't let any-
one in Paris hear of it. Otherwise, young man, you certainly won't live
long enough to realize your dreams."

In his exuberant emotionality the student had reminded Jean-
Jacques of Fernand. Playfully he said, "If you want to do me a favor,
pick me a little chickweed for my canaries."

But when, on leaving, the stranger asked whether he might come
again, Jean-Jacques mastered his feelings and refused him. "My
friend," he said, "I am afraid I would get used to you. I cannot afford
a new friendship; I could not bear new disappointments."

The young man bowed low and departed.

Back in Paris the student he was nineteen years old, from Arras,

101

md named Maximilian Robespierre wrote in his diary:

1 have seen Jean-Jacques, the Citizen of Geneva, the greatest of
nortals. I am still bursting with joy and pride for he called me his
Friend!

*Noble man, you have taught me to acknowledge the grandeur of
Nature and the eternal principles of the social order.

'But in your sublime countenance I also descried the furrows traced
by that sorrow to which the injustice of men has condemned you.
With my own eyes I have seen in you how the world rewards the
straggle for truth.

'Yet I will follow in your footsteps.

'The old edifice is crumbling. Faithful to your teachings, we will
use the pickaxe to complete its destruction and will carry the stones
with which to build a new house more glorious than any the world
has ever seen. Perhaps for such an undertaking I and others will
have to pay with direst misfortune or even premature death. I am
not dismayed. You called me your friend: I will show myself worthy/

102

PART TWO

A DARK EVENING

A BETRAYER BETRAYED

BELATED REPENTANCE

THE INQUEST

INHUMATION

A KNOTTY LEGACY

THE DANGEROUS TRUTH

EXPULSION OF THE EVIL ONE

ROYAL COMEDY

FERNAND SEES THE LIGHT

FERNAND ACTS

impendere vero t
Devote your life to tratK.

JUVENAL >-< JEAN- JACQUES ROUSSEAU

A useful lie is tetter
tKan a useless IrutK.

OLD FRENCH SAYING

Chapter 1 A Dark Evening

WHEN FERNAND HEABD that the two women were driving to Senlis he
decided to make the most of their absence and call on Jean- Jacques
to go for a walk. He thought he would feel less constrained knowing
that Therese was away. But he delayed irresolutely for so long that
when he finally reached the pavilion Jean-Jacques was not there.
Fernand visited all his favorite haunts and still could not find him.
He strolled over to the village. Goodman Maurice was in the garden
of the inn, and Fernand asked him whether Jean- Jacques had passed
that way. Maurice said yes. But, he added in his garrulous way, Mon-
sieur Jean- Jacques had lingered only for a short while, then he had
said he was eager to get to work and had gone home.

To disturb the Master at his writing was out of the question. But
sometimes, during breathing spells, he would play the piano, and
then Fernand would not hesitate to go in. Fernand went to the pa-
vilion. It was locked and no sound was audible from within but the
singing of the canaries. Out of sorts at having missed Jean- Jacques,
but a little relieved also, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

After lunch he studied Tacitus with Monsieur Gerber. Then he
went for another walk in the gardens; but still he saw no sign of
Jean-Jacques. He went for a swim in the lake, sat down under the
willow tree and waited for a long time.

Dinner was early that evening. The Marquis was in good humor,
and even Monsieur Gerber was talkative. He related that the day
before yesterday Jean- Jacques had played for him some of the songs
he had composed here in Ermenonville. Monsieur Gerber certainly
did not mean to boast of his intimacy with the Master, and yet Fer-
nand was hurt that he had. not been the first to hear the songs. Mon-
sieur de Girardin remarked that he must invite Jean-Jacques for an
evening of music soon.

They talked about other things. Gerber praised the ease with which

105

Fernand read his Tacitus. The Marquis suggested that the conversa-
tion be conducted for a while in Latin. This was done and caused
considerable merriment; even Femand brightened up. It turned out
to be a gay evening.

Yet before night fell everything was horribly changed. From the
entrance hall came screams and wails. Everyone rushed out And
there was Therese, a Therese they had never known. The otherwise
quiet, placid woman was in a state of frightful panic. Her gown, a
pretty pastel gown she had worn on the trip to Senlis, had stains on
it, brownish-red stains bloodstains.

What had happened? Had she hurt herself? No, not she: Jean-
Jacques. Had Jean-Jacques had an attack? Perhaps. He did not move.
He was stiff and cold. He was - dead. Nobody understood. "Stiff and
cold and dead/' Therese repeated.

A man of action, Monsieur de Girardin at once issued orders. "You,
Paul, go to Doctor Chenu; you, Gaspard, ride to Senlis and fetch me
Doctor Villeron. Get them both here at all costs!"

Then he ran over to the pavilion. Fernand went with him, and
Monsieur Gerber, and others.

Meanwhile Madam Levasseur had been alone in the pavilion with
the dead Jean-Jacques. When she found the poor fool lying in his
blood, she had been horribly frightened. Her first impulse had been
to do nothing, to let things take their course. Then the villainous
brute would end on the gallows or on the rack. But Therese had
started to scream at once, and her screams had brought Madame
Levasseur to her senses. Her silly Therese could let herself go; she,
the old woman of seventy-three, had to think, to calculate swiftly
and correctly.

The fiend had not simply bashed in her son-in-law's head; he had
arranged the body neatly in front of the fireplace so that it might be
thought he had collapsed and in falling injured himself on the comer
of the mantel The brute had obviously intended to give her a hint. If
she said she suspected him, then Th6r&se ? s relations with him would
inevitably come out, and that would be the end of everything, not
only for Nicolas but for Therese as well.

All these thoughts ran through the old woman's head in a matter
of seconds. She realized that the rat had reckoned shrewdly. There
was nothing she could do to him. In fact, she would have to shield
him for the time being.

"Help me get him onto the bed/' she snapped at Th&r&se,

106

At the sight of all the blood, Therese had started screaming again,
and this time the old woman had not rebuked her; she had let her
shriek and wail, let her rush out of the house and over to the cMteau.
Now Madame Levasseur was alone. But she would not be alone for
long; soon they would all be here, and by then the story the scoundrel
had prepared must be credible.

First of all she rushed to examine the chest. There they were, those
valuable papers covered with the fool's writing. The cur had had the
sense to leave them where they were.

She sat down, feeling very weak. But she must pull herself to-
gether; she must think straight now; she must not let herself be
caught in any inconsistency. A good thing her head was functioning
better than her legs.

Here was the Marquis. And all the others.

The light inside the pavilion was dim, but Girardin saw at once
that there were bloodstains all over the floor. "What has happened?"
he asked. "Where is he?" Madame Levasseur pointed to the alcove,
which was in semidarkness. "We laid him on the bed," she said.
Hesitantly, the Marquis approached. His eyes slowly grew accus-
tomed to the dimness. Jean- Jacques lay on the bed in his dressing
gown, his thin face caked with dried blood.

Girardin stared stupidly; his brain stopped working. For the first
time in his life he felt on the point of falling down in a faint.

Madame Levasseur continued speaking. "What did you say, ma-
dame? I beg your pardon, madame?" he asked, pulling himself to-
gether. "We found him lying on the floor," Madame Levasseur de-
clared, "here, by the chimney. We lifted him and laid him on the
bed. Actually I had to do it by myself; Therese was hardly any use
at all. But of course he hardly weighs anything. He was already quite
cold, and the blood was dry. But we got blood on ourselves all the
same, as you see." The Marquis went a little closer to the bed. "It
looks as if he banged himself on the right side," said Madame Le-
vasseur, "it's over his whole right temple." "And the house was locked
when you came back from Senlis?" the Marquis asked. "Yes," replied
Madame Levasseur, and she added, "This is how I think it happened
he had a stroke and when he collapsed he fell against the corner
of the mantel."

Inwardly, the Marquis sighed with relief. Such an explanation was
credible; it had to be credible. He went up still closer to the body.
He had looked upon many dreadful wounds on the field of battle, but

107

this head encrusted with blood was the ghastliest sight he had ever
seen. "Yes, probably the right temple/* he answered rather stupidly.

For years now he had lived in peace, content with himself and,
on the whole, with the rest of the world, so that Jean-Jacques's sinister
death struck him with a unique impact. All of a sudden Jean-
Jacques's visit, which he had regarded as the happiest event in his
life, had turned into a black disaster. The noble, gentle Master had
been abruptly, bloodily, wrenched from the peace which he had
found here at last. And Girardin himself felt involved in the horror
though he did not know exactly how, nor did he wish to know.

He had to summon others to share his grief. "You were so close to
him, my son," he said. "Look at him. Come closer, do not be afraid
to look/'

Femand*s eyes had been drawn again and again to Therese's blood-
stained gown he could not help it. He felt a horror of her; he had
to exert the full force of his reason to convince himself that she had
not shed this blood. She and the old woman had been away in Senlis;
they had a valid alibi. He himself was the guilty one. Ever since
Lady's disappearance he had known that Jean- Jacques was in danger.
This very day some premonition had told him to seek out Jean-
Jacques and protect him. But he had been deterred by a fear of the
first awkward moments of meeting, and had deliberately delayed.
He was to blame for this gruesome turn of events.

He went up to the body as his father had bidden him. There lay
his friend. Jean- Jacques had offered him his love. But Fernandas own
heart had been sluggish, he had not been capable of sufficient love.
He stared at the head encrusted with blood. He was almost numb
with grief; he had never imagined such terrible grief could exist.

Meanwhile, Girardin pulled himself together. He had duties to the
dead man and to himself. If he himself had recoiled at the sight of
the bloodstained corpse, how much more reluctant would others be
to accept Madame Levasseur s sensible explanation. They would in-
vent cheap tales about this blood. He would have to see to it that
reason triumphed over wild imagination and superstition. His sense
of duty and responsibility displaced sorrow.

And here was the Maitre Chirurgien from Ermenonville, Chenu.
*T fear we were all too late, Doctor," said Girardin, and led him to
the body. After a cursory examination Doctor Chenu shrugged his
shoulders and declared that Monsieur Rousseau must have been dead

10 7

for hours, for four or five hours. Quickly the Marquis put in, "A dread-
ful sight, is it not? But there is a perfectly natural explanation. The
house was locked. Jean- Jacques was alone at the time of the seizure.
As he collapsed he struck his head on the sharp corner of the mantel-
piece. That is what Madame Levasseur thinks, and that is probably
what happened." He spoke with agitation. The Maltre Chirurgien of
Ermenonville concurred rather lamely with the Seigneur of Ermenon-
ville: "Yes, I daresay that is probably what happened. 9 *

Uneasily, Girardin observed that the whole room was full of peo-
ple. Father Gauchet and Martin and the mayor of Ermenonville were
there; heads were peering in at the windows. There were people from
the chateau and people from the village.

In an undertone Doctor Chenu suggested that it might be in order
to notify Monsieur Bonnet, the Procureur Fiscal of Ermenonville, for
the post-mortem. The Marquis was disturbed by this suggestion. He
had often had differences with the Procureur Fiscal. But the doctor
was right, the Fiscal must be informed; that was the law, and it was
also necessary in order to stop foolish rumors from spreading.

Monsieur Bonnet was sent for.

By now the Marquis was almost convinced that his enemies would
circulate rumors; they would not shrink from insinuating that he him-
self had not guarded his guest with sufficient vigilance. Proud man
that he was, this thought gnawed at him almost as savagely as his
grief. And more and more people came and whispered to each other,
and the carefree singing of the canaries went on amid their whis-
pering. '"Can't you at least keep those birds quiet!" Girardin burst
out at Madame Levasseur, speaking nervously, and more loudly than
he had intended. Without a word the old woman put a cloth over the
cage.

Then she turned to Therese, who was sitting slumped in a comer,
her face vacant, her mouth slightly open, and in a low voice gave her
an order. "Make room, please," she said to the people standing near
the fireplace. Therese fetched a small pail of water and began to wash
the blood from the floor. No one attempted to help her. They all
watched in silence.

"They are holding their tongues now/ the Marquis thought, T^ut
as soon as they get outside they'll begin to wag them. By now they
already know about it in Senlis and it will reach Louvres before long.
Postmaster Payen is a great gossip; hell spread the story with mali-
cious additions. Hell tell it to his travelers and they all stop over

109

in Louvres, Before the day is over they'll know it in Paris. It's a long
day/

The day was long, an endless midsummer day, and more and more
people poured into the house. For everyone that left, three new-
comers arrived, and there were always fresh faces at the windows.
The Marquis would have liked to drive the people away, but he felt
that would be imprudent.

Then the Procurenr Fiscal, Monsieur Bonnet, came. As required by
law he had brought a doctor with him the same Doctor Villeron
whom the Marquis had sent for. The official gave a civil greeting.
Against his will the Marquis's face grew tense and his mouth felt dry;
now was the time for caution.

The Procureur addressed a few factual questions to the women.
Therese sat apathetically while Madame Levasseur answered. Every-
one listened attentively. What Madame Levasseur said was perfectly
reasonable; it would be hard to find any objections to it. Yes, the
house had been locked as usual; lock and bolts were intact, tlie win-
dows shut no doubt Jean- Jacques had closed them because of the
heat. They had found him lying on the floor horribly covered with
blood as he was now. They themselves had been in Senlis all day,
shopping. She named the shops where they had made purchases, but
she did not mention the visit to Maltre Gibert. Then she repeated her
conjecture about a stroke and the corner of the mantel.

"That is Doctor Chenu^s opinion too," Girardin hastily put in to
support her story.

But now what lout was this, interfering? Goodman Maurice of The
Chestnuts his tenant, his subject! <{ I imagine I am the last person to
have seen the deceased before his dreadful demise," he said, address-
ing himself officiously to the Procureur. "I have read all his works
seven times, and I think I can fairly say he enjoyed a chat with me.
Monsieur Jean- Jacques looked in excellent health when he came by
this morning. I was positively struck how well he looked. Not peaked
in the least, Your Honor. It is incomprehensible to me that he should
suddenly be lying here dead." "Thank you, my friend," said the Pro-
cureur, "we will apply to you if we have any questions to ask." He
turned to Doctor Villeron: 'Would you like to examine the body?"
The doctor went up to the body. "Madame Levasseur s is the only
conceivable explanation," said the Marquis in an authoritarian tone.

After a brief examination the doctor declared, "It is quite possible
that the cause suggested by Madame Levasseur was responsible for

110

the lethal result But conclusive findings can be established only by
an autopsy."

Madame Levasseur had sensed the hostility of the crowd as they
watched her Therese wiping the blood from the floor. In her toneless
voice, very quietly, she challenged the pack. "My son-in-law more
than once expressed the wish/' she declared, "that he should not be
buried before an autopsy had taken place, and he wanted at least
ten witnesses to be present. He was always afraid of his enemies;
everyone knows that. Monsieur le Marquis, and you, Your Honor
I ask you to order an autopsy so as to clear up anything there may be
to clear up."

The Marquis had taken a profound dislike to the old woman from
the first, and though it was unreasonable he had a faint suspicion that
she might be mixed up in this bloody affair. But he could not help
feeling respect and something akin to gratitude when he saw how
bravely and skillfully she was handling matters he could not have
done better himself and the tacit understanding between them
deepened.

Monsieur Bonnet replied, "I doubt that there is anything to clear
up. But as you and the Marquis wish it, an autopsy will be per-
formed." He bowed politely to the old woman and Therese. "Be as-
sured of my unqualified sympathy, mesdames,** he said, and left.

The Marquis was relieved. The immediate danger had been avert-
ed. It was the dreadful appearance of the corpse which would start
talk; once it was properly laid out he could much more easily keep
the truth from being distorted.

If only all these people would go! "My friends," he said, turn-
ing to the bystanders with a rather forced briskness, "I think it would
be fitting to leave these ladies to themselves now." Slowly the room
cleared.

It was quite dark by this time. Madame Levasseur lit candles. Now
that the initial emergency had been met, Girardin gave in to weak-
ness. He sat down and closed his eyes.

But the thought of all that was still to be done tonight and in the
following days made relaxation impossible. Dame Aubrun must be
instructed to lay out the corpse the first thing in the morning. And he
must send a message at once to Doctor Lebegue. And he must get
Houdon, the sculptor, to come and make the death mask; there was
no time to be lost. The autopsy must not be held before the death
mask was taken.

Ill

His glance fell on the chest and writing table. He would have to
get the manuscripts into safekeeping too, as soon as possible, so that
nothing happened to them. But that could hardly be done before the
funeral. He would see to it that the ceremony was dignified and
simple. At least Jean- Jacques would be buried on Girardin's land.
Ermenonville, where the greatest man of the century was to have
had a peaceful old age, would be his final resting place.

Gradually these practical thoughts gave way in Girardin's mind
to a pure, deep grief. He went to the body. He remembered how
Jean-Jacques had so cheerfully spoken about all he still meant to
get done in Ermenonville the collection of songs, the Reveries, the
Botanical Lexicon, and ever so many other things. And the Swiss
chalet where he meant to do all this work, and to which he had
looked forward so eagerly, would be ready in the next few days; but
there would be no Jean-Jacques to take possession of it. There he lay,
snatched away in the midst of his plans, with that gaping wound in
his temple. There had been so many friends close by, and yet the
great beloved had bled his life away all alone, had breathed his last
in that cold, appalling solitude which had been his glory and his
grief all his life. The sadness of the human lot struck Girardin with
bitter force; it gave him greater anguish than he had ever felt on any
field of battle. But into his sorrow there kept absurdly intruding a bit
of doggerel, a mnemonic verse used to help Latin students memorize
the impersonal verbs which take the accusative of the person who is
properly their subject. Monsieur Gerber had often recited this verse
to Fernand: 'Piget, pudet, poenitet, taedet atque miseret. It torments,
shames, makes repentent, disgusts, saddens/

He pulled himself together. He had quite forgotten the women.
There was no way out of it, he would have to do something about
them. 'Won't you come up to the chateau and dine with us, mes-
dames?" he said, addressing himself to Madame Levasseur. "I could
send someone over to watch by the body." "Thank you, sir/' Madame
Levasseur replied coldly, almost with hostility. "It is very kind of
you, but we will stay here/'

Girardin returned to the chateau. Reluctantly, almost mechanically,
he went up to his bedroom and opened the secret panel which con-
cealed the board with all his passkeys. They were hanging as they
should, in his private, deliberately irregular arrangement. The pass-
key to the pavilion hung correctly, facing to the right, half hidden
by the key to gate number 17, and all the keys round about it were

112

hanging properly. Vaguely the memory recurred to him of his en-
counter with Nicolas in this bedroom. He suppressed the thought,
but he was unable to drive away the memory of the old woman's hos-
tile look as she declined his invitation to dinner. He did not want
to acknowledge it, but he knew exactly what that look signified. If
he had kept his promise and sent Nicolas away this would not have
happened that was what the old woman had meant

What silly fancies! He shook his head with impatient vehemence.

He went to his study. There was work to do. He was glad of it, it
distracted his mind. "Have the steward come here/' he ordered his
major-domo. "And have some more of the men ready also. I must send
couriers to Paris several couriers. And I must make arrangements
for the funeral."

He organized, he rapped out instructions, succinctly, with military
brevity. The burial would be simple but at the same time impressive.
For even the remotest generations must and would tell tie tale of
Jean- Jacques's funeral.

Chapter 2 A Betrayer Betrayed

NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Madame Levasseur and Therese were
at last left alone. Madame Levasseur sat in Jean- Jacques's favorite
chair. She was exhausted. In a life that had had its share of hard
days, this day had been one of the hardest. And tomorrow and the
day after the whole week was going to be no cinch either.

At least she had at the last minute as good as settled matters with
the notary. This Maitre Gibert could pry the last sou out of one's last
petticoat, but he knew his law, he had grasped what she wanted and
what he had to do about it, and the document would be ready in the
next few days. Therese had signed here and signed there; only the
final signature and the seal were lacking. But they were mere formali-
ties, the notary had said. Right after the funeral she would go to
Senlis again with Therese; in the interval she must only prevent
Therese from meeting that lout alone.

113

Madame Levasseur had had to think fast and sharply today. She
had figured correctly, and she was pleased with herself. She had
made the Marquis, who was none too bright, understand how the
land lay. The presence of the Procureur had chilled her to the mar-
row of her bones, but even in front of him she had kept her head,,
and she deserved real credit for having demanded an autopsy her-
self. You might say it was already established that the poor fool had
died a peaceful, natural death, and she was to be thanked for that.

She had done well; she felt superior superior to the Marquis, the
Procureur, death and the Devil. But it had been a strain, and now she
just sat feeling terribly tired and exhausted.

"Get us something to eat," she ordered Therese. "I can't eat any-
thing," Therese moaned. It was pathetic to see how helpless she
looked. "Stupid cow," the old woman scolded, but without ill will.
Wearily, she got up to fix something herself. "You ought at least to
change your clothes," she ordered, "and wash the stains out of your
dress." Therese stood up to obey. She shrank fearfully away as she
passed the alcove. "I don't know what I'm to do tonight," she com-
plained. "How can I sleep beside the dead body?" "Well, there you
are, you see," said Madame Levasseur. It was her only reference to
Therese's share of the responsibility for Jean- Jacques's death, and
Therese understood her.

In a little while the meal was ready, and finally Th6rese also sat
down at the table. They began to eat.

They were still eating when there was a sharp knock at the door.
Nicolas entered.

Therese gave a faint scream, her indolent features distorted with
fear. Involuntarily she darted a look at the alcove. She had once
heard that a murdered man will begin to bleed in the presence of his
murderer, and she squinted, trembling, toward the bed, which was
dimly discernible in the flickering light of the candles.

Madame Levasseur had expected that the cur would want to speak
to her, but not that he would have the monstrous effrontery to come
this very evening. She was dead-tired, and afraid this new strain
would be too much for her. But she would have to pull herself to-
gether; this dreadful day was demanding one last effort from her.
She did not dare fly out at the creature. She must see that he got no
chance to talk to Th6rese alone; above all she must make him under-
stand that Therese no longer had any power over the papers.

Meanwhile Nicolas had started talking. "It is rather late, ladies,"

114

he said, trying to give his squeaky voice a proper tone of condolence,
"but I felt I could not wait to express my deep sympathy for the
terrible and unexpected misfortune that has struck you. Though not
unexpected to me, ladies. And in view of the intimacy with you on
which I think I may pride myself, and since your light was still burn-
ing, I made so bold as to come in. In such a situation, I said to my-
self, two ladies now unhappily alone without their natural guardian
must surely need an experienced protector/'

"That is very kind of you/' Madame Levasseur answered; "but pray
do not be concerned about us. We have our protectors. Very effective
ones. Even the Royal Seal/'

"My French is a little weak," said Nicholas, "and perhaps I don't
quite get your meaning. I suppose our poor deceased left a will. But
is that adequate protection? For example, I see here the chest with
the famous papers. We all know how concerned the dear departed
was about these papers. He was always afraid one of these aristo-
crats might get hold of them for a crazy whim, or one of these phi-
losophers who hate each other like poison, though they themselves
don't know why."

"We are not at all afraid of that, my friend/' Madame Levasseur
assured him almost pleasantly. "That was just a bee in my poor son-
in-law's bonnet, and now it has unfortunately died with him. As for
me, I always had only one worry that common everyday cutthroats
were after the papers. Well, my boy, that kind won't trouble me any
longer. I've insured myself against them; I've got the Royal Seal
against them. At the last moment, while the hand of a low cur was
doing away with our poor Jean- Jacques." "It is not proper, madame/'
said Nicolas in mild reproof, "it is even blasphemous to refer to the
hand of Providence as that of a low cur. But I can make allowance
for your agitation. Nevertheless, ladies, and in spite of your Royal
Seal, I advise you to commit your papers to the safekeeping of an
honest, reliable person. Trust them to your tried friend and devoted
servant/' And he approached the chest

When she saw this, all Madame Levasseur's cunning and com-
posure deserted her and her pent-up rage erupted. She did her best
to raise her toneless voice, to shout. "Keep away from that chest!" she
hissed. "You blackguard! You cur! You filthy groveling swine! You're
even more brainless than disgusting. Don't you understand yet?
While you were committing your stupid, stinking butchery, we were
signing. You've been outswindled, you fathead!" It was grotesque

115

and horrible the way the old woman struggled to raise her voice and
only a high-pitched yapping came out. She continued more calmly:
c lf youll kindly take the trouble to go to Senlis, Mr. Clever Horse
Trader, and call on the royal notary Maitre Gibert, you can ask to
see the document. And if you understand the King's French you will
realize that now I, and I alone, can dispose of the papers; I, Widow
Levasseur. Therese can do nothing without me. You've gone to all
this trouble here for nothing, my little man. For nothing! You won't
get a single sou out of it, I tell you. What youll get at best is the
gallows or the wheel."

Suddenly Therese began to jabber as though out of her mind. "This
is a dreadful thing you've done, Monsieur Nicolas. I never asked you
to do it, you can't pretend I did. Why, it's simply terrible!"

Nicolas appeared calm, except for the way his flaring nostrils
twitched. His colorless eyes gave Ther&se a swift, malevolent glance,
then he turned his attention to the old woman again, a polite, if
slightly twisted, smile on his lips. "See what you've done, madame,"
he said in his squeaky voice. "You've turned the poor girl's brain. First
you speak of the bloody hand of Providence, and now you're pointing
the finger at me. As I say, I make allowance for your agitation, but
I'm not Providence, I am simply one of Monsieur le Marquis's serv-
ants as well, of course, as the future founder of a stud & la Tatter-
sail. I confess, by the way, that this stud seems to have been brought
much closer to my reach by our philosopher's regrettable demise. It's
an ill wind that blows nobody good."

With remarkable calm the old woman answered, "I know what's
making you so brash, my boy. You think that if I let things take their
course my Th6rese will be in for a bad time, too, and so 111 have
to shield you. But maybe you're on the wrong track again. The pros-
pect of seeing you on the wheel is tempting, my boy, and worth a
high price."

Nicolas replied, still quite coolly, "I know you're a clever old lady,
madame. You'll think twice before deciding you can afford any such
amusement." But he realized that she had indeed not gone to Senlis
to see the sights, and abruptly he was overcome by overpowering
rage and disappointment at the miscarriage of the plan that he had
carried out with such speed and daring. His face became a mask of
fury. "Shut up, you old jade," he roared at her. "Do you think I'm
afraid of your toothless mouthings? I know how to ride an old nag

116

like you." He advanced toward the chest "You see, here goes your
treasure!"

Madame Levasseur threw herself in his path. It was pitiable to see
the fat, puffing old woman trying to stop the sinewy young man. She
tried to scream and could not.

In utter desperation she clutched Therese by the arm. "Scream,
you goose!'* she implored hoarsely. "He's stealing your money. He's
stealing all you have to live on! Go on, scream!" Therese saw her
mother's face tense with rage, fear, and determination. All the awe
and respect she had felt for this woman ever since she was able to
think and feel overcame her, and she began to scream. She screamed
piercingly in her full, rich voice.

Nicolas let be at once. "Brainless," he said. "Here she is, tossing
away the chance of a lifetime. But I knew it all along brainless."

He had himself fully under control again. "It's quite clear you are
too upset at the moment, ladies," he said politely, "to recognize your
real well-wisher. Therefore I will take my leave now, once more
expressing my deepest condolences."

"Good-bye, my good fellow," said Madame Levasseur, "and also
on Therese's behalf, good-bye. If I catch you with her once more, 111
show you what's what. Mark my words." But in saying this she had
merely given Nicolas the opportunity for an effective exit "You'd
do better to offer your advice to the Widow Rousseau herself, my
dear old lady," he said. "It wasn't my father's son who started this
love match." He bowed and left.

Without wasting a word on Therese, Madame Levasseur went up-
stairs to go to bed at last.

"Don't leave me alone, Mother," Therese whimpered. But the old
woman did not pause; Therese could not tell if she had even heard
her.

Therese huddled into a corner as far as possible from the alcove
and sat down on a chair, exhausted and empty. But thoughts came
against her will. It was unfair of Nicolas to disgrace her like that in
front of her mother. She had not run after him; it was a lie. And he
did have some feeling for her! No man could make love as he had
done with her unless he felt something. These things she understood.
It was mean of him to deny it now.

All men were mean. The little Count was mean too. Even Jean-
Jacques had been mean, or he would not have done that to her, put-

117

ting away the children. But she must not think badly of him, with
him lying so near and looking so awful.

She sat, dull and stupid, her slow brain refusing to grasp that from
now on she was to live without Jean-Jacques, in a way her own
mistress, and with money besides. Monsieur Nicolas had brought all
this about. He might be hanged for it, drawn, maybe even quartered.
They had quartered Damiens; she recalled with a shiver how terri-
fying the pictures and the exact descriptions of it had been; and
Damiens had not even killed the King, he had merely intended to.
If Nicolas had had no feeling for her he would never have risked
such horrible things. He had done it for her sake, that much was
certain. The thought gave her dull satisfaction.

She sat there musing drowsily. Nicolas was wonderful at making
love; you couldn't deny him anything. It was a good thing her mother
was there. Without her their money really would soon be up the
flue. Her mother had often beaten her, but just now when she had
felt her mother's hand on her arm and her mother had looked at her,
all her weakness had vanished and at once she had been able to
scream.

For the next few days she must stay close by her mother and must
not see Nicolas alone. It was a pity, for he loved her. That was the
only reason why he could not wait for Jean-Jacques to pass away
by himself. Poor Jean- Jacques.

She would have liked to sit in the big armchair, but tonight she
did not dare; it was Jean-Jacques's armchair. So she continued to
huddle on the little chair until at last she dozed off uncomfortably.

Chapter 3 Belated Repentance

ALTHOUGH FEKNANB was tired out from the emotions of this dreadful
evening, he passed a sleepless night Remorse consumed him. He
blamed himself for having failed to give Jean-Jacques unquestion-
able loyalty, as Monsieur Gerber had urged. Instead he had been
unfeelingly critical of Jean- Jacques, even worse than Martin Catrou.

118

Fate had singled him out to receive the most intimate thoughts o
the world's wisest man, but he had not loved the Master enough.
His heart had been sluggish; he had been dull and unobservant and
had obtusely forfeited the unprecedented privilege.

At the crack of dawn and day came early at this time of year
he hurried out of doors and went to the clearing. He relived every
gesture, every word of his last meeting with Jean-Jacques. In his
mind he heard clearly the music of Jean- Jacques's speech, music that
had soothed the mad turmoil within him. He saw Jean-Jacques's
deep-set, lively eyes fixed upon him, heard the last words he had
spoken that deep, emotional voice telling him: "Man is good!"

He, Fernand, was not good. And not even wicked. He was some-
thing worse halfhearted lukewarm, callous. From pure laziness,
from fear of embarrassment, he had failed when it came to the test,
and had not protected the Master as the inward voice had bidden
him.

He must do something. For the dead man at least he must do
something.

He went in search of Nicolas. He feared the encounter, feared Ms
own impulses. He had an insane desire to knock the fellow down
and trample on him. But he must see him, and challenge him.

He found him in the stable and called him. 'What can I do for you,
sir?" Nicolas said. "Where were you yesterday?" Fernand demanded
imperiously. Feigning mild surprise, Nicolas replied, "Do you mean
to suggest, sir, that I should have taken better care of Monsieur the
Philosopher? I would gladly have done so. But Monsieur le Marquis
had ordered me to keep out of the deceased's way, and if I remember
rightly you yourself impressed that on me."

The urge Fernand had dreaded overcame him, the longing to kill
the fellow with his own hands. With a touch of familiarity Nicolas
went on, "I was glad to have more time for the horses, the Rousseau
ladies being away." "And were you in the stables all day?" Fernand
asked. "Possibly not the whole day," Nicolas replied with insolent
civility, "since there is unfortunately less to do here than Monsieur le
Marquis promised me."

Fernand could restrain himself no longer. With his riding crop he
struck Nicolas across the face.

Nicolas was strong. With one hand tied behind his back he could
have given this skinny aristocrat a drubbing he would remember. But
he had the sense to realize that in a fight with a lord a stableboy

119

would always get the worst of it; and with this bad business hanging
over his head he would have to be careful. "I should have thought
you had learned a little moderation from the philosophy of the de-
ceased/' he said, 4< but I see that sorrow over his loss has driven you
partly out of your mind/'

Fernand spoke softly, between his teeth. "You killed him, you
scum, you murderer. You killed Lady, too."

Once again Nicolas denied himself the pleasure of giving this fop
a rough answer, and remained cool. The little Count was a simpleton
who could not anticipate the consequences of certain actions, so
Nicolas would have to point them out to him. "When you are again
in a condition to think logically, sir/' he said, "you W *U realize yourself
that there can be a perfectly natural explanation of Monsieur Jean-
Jacques's regrettable demise. But if it should turn out that there has
been foul play, it seems to me suspicion would first fall on people as
have rummaged secretly in Monsieur the Philosopher's papers, espe-
cially when these pe'ople are said to have shown a human interest in
the dead man's wife too."

Once more Fernand saw red. Therese had betrayed him to the
lout. Probably Therese was implicated in the dreadful deed in
fact it was almost certain. The bloodstains on her dress danced be-
fore his eyes.

Yet his rage was impotent. The threatened danger did exist. If
Nicolas came under suspicion, his own liaison with Th6r&se would
be investigated; Therese would be involved; he himself would be in-
volved. In imagination he could already hear the mortifying uproar
that would break out all over Europe.

He was powerless to fight the scoundrel.

With an abrupt movement he turned and walked away.

Nicolas grinned and spat noisily. The action pained him; his whole
face burned. But he went on grinning. Not the gallows, not the wheel
just the lash of a whip was all he had to pay. And it was a price
he paid gladly for those papers of Jean- Jacques. For he was sure of
Therese, and with her of the papers, no matter how wildly the old
woman threshed about.

Fernand felt choked with disgust and a dull gloom at having got
himself mixed up in this dirty, murderous business. Then his rage
returned. Even if the whole world were against him, he would not
let the criminals escape scot-free with their booty.

But first he must find out how deeply Th&r&se was implicated.

120

Yet, even if he wrung an unequivocal confession from her, what
could he do? Could he bring such shame upon his own father? And
what about the Master? Could he contribute to making him appear
the poor fool and weakling that his detractors called him?

But what if these doubts were no more than pretexts and evasions
to enable him to avoid a difficult task?

If only he did not have to go through all this confusion and be-
wilderment alone! If only he had Gilberte and could pour out his
misery and remorse to her!

When he reached the cMteau he found visitors there. Monsieur
Robinet had come in person to convey to his neighbor condolences
at the death of Jean-Jacques, Gilberte was with him.

When Fernand caught sight of her his heart stood still. He gazed
at her. She did not speak, but her eyes told him that it was she who
had prompted the visit For the moment Fernand forgot the dead
man. He exulted: 'all is well.'

Monsieur Robinet had been speaking, and now he turned to Fer-
nand. "My sincerest sympathy to you also, Count," he said in his
creaking voice. "I know you were his special friend; it must have
hit you very hard." Slowly, with annoyance, Fernand turned his eyes
from Gilberte and looked into Monsieur Robinet's square, red face.
Monsieur Robinet once more addressed the Marquis. "Tell me, mon-
sieur," he said in an animated, confidential yet sympathetic tone,
"is it true that he removed himself from a world that did not suit
him?" Fernand thought this hale and hearty gentleman who stood
between Gilberte and himself even more unpleasant than usual. Be-
fore his father could say anything, he answered with a vehemence
bordering on impropriety, "No, monsieur, it is not true." "No offense
meant," Monsieur Robinet remarked amiably, "but everyone is whis-
pering that there's something rather odd about his sudden demise."
When the only response from the Girardins was an embarrassed si-
lence he went on briskly, "For myself, I certainly wish him an un-
tarnished memory. As a philosopher he had his merits. To be sure,
when he was alive people used to wonder how a person who couldn't
manage his own affairs would be able to deal with the affairs of the
whole world. But that's all changed now. Revolutionary philosophers
are acclaimed as soon as they are dead and can no longer create
disorder."

Fernand could bear such frivolous talk no longer. He stood up.
Often, on Monsieur Robinef s previous visits, he and Gilberte had

121

left the two older men alone, and he hoped that she would be will-
Ing to do so this time.

And in fact she rose and followed him out of doors.

When Gilberte heard of Jean-Jacques's sudden death, and then
the shocking rumors, all that had come up between Feraand and
herself was swept away; there remained only aching pity and a deep
anxiety. What in heaven's name would Fernand be doing next? It
was her duty to go to him and to stop him from doing something
foolishly noble and irretrievable.

They walked along the narrow path side by side, and Fernand
did not dare to look at Gilberte. Because she was so long silent the
old fear came back to him. "Fernand!" she said at last, and her voice
compelled him to look up. "Fernand!" she repeated, and said no
more; her large eyes had become murky. Timidly, cautiously, he took
her hand. She looked away from him but did not withdraw her hand.
He pressed it and she returned the pressure. He did not dare to kiss
her, but he felt that their bond was much closer than ever before
now after all these ugly events.

For a long time they walked in silence. The world vanished for
him. He would have liked to walk this way forever, holding her
good, large, firm hand to go on walking like this tomorrow, the
day after, the rest of his life. It never occurred to him that Jean-
Jacques had said something of the sort.

"Well, speak to me!" she said at last. He was startled out of his
sweet abstraction and pulled himself together. Again and again dur-
ing those days of solitary misery he had gone over it all with her in
his imagination, had accused and excused himself. He was about to
do so now. But she said, "Don't speak of that! Never, never again!"
She recalled him to the reality of Ermenonville: "Tell me what
happened here."

This reality was harsh, yet not nearly so confusing now that he
had Gilberte to confide in. "Monsieur Robinet was wrong/' he said
morosely, bitterly. "It was not suicide; it was murder. That fellow
killed him Nicolas, the stableboy because of Th6rse. He doesn't
even deny it."

Gilberte was overcome with rage. They must be destroyed, both
of them that cruel servant and the woman too. Handed over to the
police. Hanged! Broken on the wheel! But even as she thought this
she realized that then Fernand also would be drawn into the mael-
strom, and she remembered why she had come. "Does anyone else

122

know of this?" she asked practically, "Has anyone spoken of it?' "No
one has spoken of it," answered Fernand, "at least not to me. But
many will suspect it. And I must avenge him!" he continued grimly,
hotly, looking very young. "It's unthinkable that the murderer should
go unpunished and on top of all should make off with Jean-Jacques's
money and Jean-Jacques's wife."

Gilberte had been afraid that Fernand would feel this way; she
would not have loved him had he not. Again a muted rage welled
up in her. Would they never hear the last of this wretched woman?
But again her practicality triumphed. Her common sense had been
greatly sharpened by the hardships of a childhood spent with her
actress mother. She would have to damp Fernand's ridiculously over-
zealous conscience. She must prevent him from acting indiscreetly
for the sake of the dead Jean-Jacques.

"I gather from all you've told me," she said, "that Jean-Jacques
himself would certainly have pitied this woman's foolishness. He
would certainly not have suffered her to be brought to court or to
the gallows." When Fernand made no reply, Gilberte laid her hand
on his shoulder. "Let him rest," she urged. She was younger than
Fernand, but she talked to him as if she were the elder. "Don't stir
up this foul mess! Let the vile man and the low woman go away
together if they want to!" There was a frantic note in her voice.
"We are not their keepers!"

Chapter 4 The Inquest

JUST AS MONSIEUR de Girardin had feared, no one believed that
Jean- Jacques had died a natural death. The sight of the bloody corpse
had stimulated the onlookers' imagination, and from Chateau Er~
rnenonville sinister rumors spread far and wide. It was said that
there had been frequent quarrels in the pavilion because of Therese's
behavior and that Jean- Jacques had committed suicide on that ac-
count. Spiteful persons maintained that Th6rese had dealt her hus-

123

band the fatal blow during one of these quarrels. Others claimed they
had seen her carrying on with young men in the bushes.

Goodman Maurice, proud because he had been the last person to
speak with the great man, assured everyone how well Jean- Jacques
had looked and reiterated that he had intended to go peacefully
back to his work and certainly had not been planning death by his
own hand. Maurice stressed that the Marquis had not let people
near the body. Farther Gauchet, too, who had often had disagree-
ments with the Marquis, thought that the latter might have done
more to clear up the affair.

These and similar rumors sped to Dammartin and Senlis, to Lou-
vres and to the great city of Paris.

The gentlemen whom Girardin had informed by special messenger
had not yet reached Chateau Ermenonville when an unexpected
guest came to the pavilion - Sergeant Frangois Renoux. He had
spared no cost in coming post-haste to comfort his mother and sister.
This time he could enter the pavilion without tedious precautions;
the dead man would not send him away.

"It must have been a terrible blow," he told his mother and sister,
"to find him lying there all dead and cold. Of course, sixty-seven
isn't a bad age, expecially for a philosopher who overtaxed his brain
all his life."

Frangois went to the deathbed in the alcove. Madame Aubrun had
been there very early to lay out the body. She had washed away the
blood, but the deep, gaping wound was still visible. Sergeant Fran-
gois was either unable or unwilling to see it. "Farewell, Jean- Jacques,"
he said in ringing tones. "You were sometimes a bit queer in the up-
per story, particularly I regret to say where I was concerned,
but you were a good comrade in the fight for a good cause." He
stood to attention and saluted as he had so often saluted a dead
comrade about to make the last journey. Then he went back to his
mother and sister.

Madame Levasseur stroked her beloved son's hand. It was a happy
result of an unhappy event that she could once more feast her eyes
on his splendid figure. True, he was not wearing the impressive uni-
form of the recruiting officer, but the simpler one of a sergeant. His
plans had fallen through, he informed her casually; the authorities
had despicably raised the amount of the required bond. But what-
ever uniform he wore, Madame Levasseur was delighted to have him

124

here. He was the very man to protect her and Therese from the scoun-
drel in these first perilous days.

"At least you have one small consolation in your great misfortune,"
Sergeant Frangois observed presently. "There ought to be plenty
of pelf from now on. Now my brother-in-law's daffy notions and
supersensitive scruples won't interfere with our converting his phi-
losophy into cash." And he looked greedily at the chest which con-
tained the manuscripts.

Madame Levasseur did not like the sound of that. "Of course
we're going to cash in on the papers," she said evasively, "but none
too soon, I'm afraid. You know how legal business is, my dear Fran-
gois. First of all the estate must be signed, sealed and delivered to us,
and that takes time." The Sergeant had an idea. "Wouldn't it be best,
Mama," he suggested, "if I were to take charge of the chest mean-
while? I have my contacts; I could get the matter under way in Paris
right now."

With mounting apprehension the old woman fended off the pro-
posal. "The publishers definitely won't give us a sou till everything
is legal and shipshape. I know those birds. But at the right time 111
have my say with them, don't worry." The Sergeant scarcely troubled
to conceal his disappointment. "Very well, if that's what you think,"
he said. "Actually of course, I'm the head of the family now." "When
the time comes, my dear boy, I certainly shall consult you," the old
woman said hastily to placate him. But her resolution to visit Maitre
Gibert immediately after the funeral was strengthened. And as soon
as possible she would deposit the papers somewhere else, where
they would be safe from that vicious Nicolas and also from her dear
son who unfortunately was all too generous and irresponsible. It was
hard on an old hen like herself to have to keep her chicks under her
wing when they had long since outgrown chickhood, but it was fortu-
nate that she was still capable of it.

Meanwhile the gentlemen whom Monsieur de Girardin had noti-
fied arrived at the chateau: Doctor Lebegue and the sculptor Houdon.
Monsieur Ducis, the dramatist, was also there the man with whom
Jean- Jacques had spent his last night in Paris, writing the handbills
for the Dialogues. And Baron Melchior Grimm, the famous philoso-
pher, one of the creators of the Encyclopedic, turned up too. Once
a close friendship had linked Jean- Jacques with the Encyclopedists,
with Diderot and, above all, with Melchior Grimm; but amity had
later changed into bitter antagonism, and Monsieur de Grimm was

125

as unwelcome to the Marquis as Monsieur Ducis was welcome. How-
ever, Girardin could hardly turn away from the deceased a man
whose word in matters of literature and taste was law all over Europe
and whose relationship to Jean-Jacques was known to all the world.

In addition to these friends, the surgeons, doctors, and officers of
the law who were to perf orm or witness the post-mortem had ap-
peared at the chateau. They were all lavishly entertained. The major-
domo and the domestics wore black jabots; their faces were solemn,
their voices subdued.

Before the autopsy Monsieur de Girardin conducted Jean-Jacques's
two closest friends, Lebegue and Duels, to the deathbed. He ex-
pounded to them the explanation of Jean-Jacques's death. "It cannot
have been otherwise," he concluded.

The other two were silent. Disbelief was plain on Ducis's honest,
rugged face. He liked to find the laws of tragedy operating in all
events; he had heard about the rumors, and he knew that his dead
friend had had many enemies. After a pause he said noncommittally,
"A grandiose and sinister fate overshadowed Jean-Jacques from birth
to death."

Leb&gue believed Girardin's naive explanation still less. When he
saw the body he was filled with a burning rage and grief. He had
loved Jean- Jacques, this poor helpless creature, so childlike for all
his years, with his powerful brain, his big heart, his weak eyes and
bodily infirmity, He was certain that evil hands had brought about
this death and that the women were mixed up in it, although per-
haps unwillingly. He felt intense bitterness, for this man would have
had many years of life and work ahead of him had he been better
looked after and advised. And instead, Jean- Jacques had met so miser-
able an end. Yet he appreciated Girardin's attitude and was inclined
to help him. Doctor Leb&gue was a man of the world. A sensational
trial in connection with Jean- Jacques's death would bring scandal on
Ermenonville, sully Jean- Jacques's memory and impair the effect of
his books. When it came to setting forth the findings of the post-
mortem, Lebegue would have a decisive voice. For the sake of pos-
terity he would not hesitate to certify a natural death. He would lie
they would all lie. It was pitiable: like so many of the scenes in
which poor Jean-Jacques had been the helpless center, this last reck-
oning with his body would be an absurd, dishonest farce.

The Marquis's interview with, the sculptor Houdon was embar-
rassing too. The celebrated young artist who had been called to

126

Ermenonville to take the death mask was disconcerted to see the
shattered temple. "Couldn't art do anything to help?" asked Girardin.
Houdon s face grew darker still "Of course, I don't mean that the
wound should be made invisible," the Marquis hastened to add. TBut
after all, it was mere accident that the Master cut his head open in
falling. Must his countenance be forever disfigured by this mischance?
Should not the death mask show posterity Jean- Jacques's noble face
as it really was?" "I will see what can be done," the sculptor replied
coldly.

With his two Italian assistants he proceeded to take the death mask.

At the appointed time, three o'clock, the post-mortem examination
took place. As the dead man had wished, there were ten persons
present: five doctors, four government officials, and Girardin. Of the
medical men, three were surgeons: Chenu from Ermenonville, Brusle
from Montagny, and Casteres from Senlis, then two physicians: Doc-
tor Villeron from Senlis and Doctor Lebegue of the Faculty of the
University of Paris. The four officials were Procureur Bonnet, Mayor
Martin, Lieutenant of the Police Blondel, and Police Sergeant Lan-
dru, all from Ermenonville.

The room was hot, the air heavy with the scent of the many flowers.
The dead man's clothes were removed. He lay there pitifully naked,
with the gaping wound in his temple.

The flowers afforded a painfully grotesque contrast to the work
of the commission. Monsieur de Girardin could barely conceal his
agitation. A distasteful business, thought Lebegue. Of all the doctors
present, he had by far the highest reputation. 'Would you care to
begin, my dear colleague?" he said, turning to Doctor Casteres.

The autopsy took nearly two hours. The doctors conversed in
subdued tones, with much use of Latin technical terms. They knew
what was expected of them; moreover, some members of the com-
mission had already committed themselves.

The Marquis sat on a small chair in the corner. Lebegue observed
that for all his self-control he was in an agony of suspense. After a
while, before the autopsy was finished, Lebegue dryly told him, "My
colleagues seem to agree unanimously that it was a case of apoplexy
of the brain."

A long report to this effect was drawn up. It was in five sections
and was signed by two doctors and two officials as experts, and by
the others as witnesses.

127

Chapter 5 Inhumation

GIBABDIN WAS CERTAIN that only one resting place was worthy of
Jean-Jacques the island of the tall poplars. He even seemed to
recall that in an emotional moment Jean- Jacques himself had told
him he wished to be buried there, opposite his beloved willow tree.

The Marquis arranged that the burial should take place at mid-
night; it was just at the time of the full moon. The peasants on his
estates received a summons to station themselves with torches on the
shores of the lake and on the knolls round about it. Anyone else
who wished might come; torches for everybody were made ready.

Only the two women and Jean- Jacques's closest friends were to
accompany the funeral barge to the little island itself.

When the coffin was carried out of the pavilion, torches glimmered
on the shores of the lake and all the hills around it.

There were three boats which rowed out upon the lake to the
sound of muted music. In the first boat was the coffin, escorted by
Girardin and Fernand. The second bore Therese and Madame Le-
vasseur. In the third were Lebegue and Ducis, likewise Baron Grimm,
whom the Marquis could not very well exclude. Slowly the boats
rowed the short distance to the island across the shimmering moonlit
water. The crowd was perfectly still; the peasants had been instructed
to maintain the strictest silence. The only sounds were the gentle
music, the beat of the oars, the cry of startled water fowl, the chirping
of crickets, and the croaking of frogs.

Most of the villagers who had gathered around the lake were slow-
witted folk. They had had no conception of what the dead man had
meant to the world. Now that so many people had come from Senlis
and even from Paris, they realized that he must indeed have been
somebody. All the more reason for them to disapprove of their sei-
gneur's protecting Monsieur Jean-Jacques's foul murderers.

128

Goodman Maurice in particular expressed his resentment in vehe-
ment whispers. It was disgraceful that the Marquis was doing noth-
ing to avenge the bloody death of this great friend of mankind. Had
some aristocrat been done in, the Marquis would long since have
had at least two dozen persons thrown into the dungeons. The sei-
gneur was sinfully arrogant. He professed to be a freethinker, but
when it came to actions he didn't care a jot for Jean-Jacques's phi-
losophy. Jean-Jacques, for example, had taught that there was no
difference between the Marquis and the villagers liberty, equality,
fraternity. Damn it! - it wouldn't have hurt the Marquis to have in-
vited one of Jean-Jacques's friends from the lower class, Maurice
himself, say, to come onto the island as a representative of humanity.

Another who was full of rebellious thoughts was Martin, the son
of Widow Catrou who kept the village store, Fernandas friend and
age-mate. Granted, for an aristrocrat Fernand was a decent fellow,
but he was an aristocrat nevertheless, and at the crucial moment he
was found wanting. He had bragged about how deeply he revered
this crazy philosopher of his and then looked on calmly while one of
his people bashed the man's head in. And now he wasn't lifting a
finger to bring the murderer to justice. And the judges were strangely
lax, though they were usually all too eager to discharge the duties of
their office. And yet Martin was fond of Fernand and felt sorry for
him. After all, there was not much Fernand could do if the seigneur,
his Papa, for some sinister reason had decided to hush the thing up.
But it was a bloody shame all the same. Besides, you couldn't get
round it this fellow Jean- Jacques had been something more than
a fool. When Fernand had accused Martin of shooting his mouth off
without having read anything of Jean-Jacques, the remark had hit
home and Martin had set to work at once to catch up on his reading.
And while a lot of what he read had struck him as high-flown, there
was much that was damned clear. 'The despot has no right to com-
plain if force dethrones him. Force upheld him, force casts him down:
the oppressed oppress the oppressor. The circle is complete: every-
thing follows its natural course.' It took guts to publish a thing like
that in the realm of His Most Christian Majesty and his gendarmes.

Among the many strangers attending the funeral was the young
law student from Arras who had visited Jean- Jacques during his last
days. As he stared at the barge carrying the revered dead man across
the glittering water, his expression was even more determined, more
fanatical than when he met the Master for the first and last time.

129

Jean- Jacques had been bitter on that particular day; he had expressed
biting scorn for a world which hated and persecuted any honest
searcher after truth, and he had not been wrong. In his heart the
young student silently uttered a sort of prayer for the dead: The
tyrants have so blinded humanity that it hates you, the friend of
mankind, and sees in you a fool and a fiend. But we young people
resolve to follow you along the arduous road to insight and truth,
and there are thousands of us. I swear to you that we will compel
the ignorant to open their eyes, to love you, and to reap the glorious
harvest that you have sown.'

Monsieur Gerber, too, was full of exalted feelings, though of a
different kind, as he gazed after the funeral barge from the small
point of land with the willow tree. He had banished from his con-
sciousness the terrible appearance of the corpse. Henceforth he would
remember only the image of the man who used to stroll quietly in the
gardens, musically proclaiming words of benign wisdom. Gerber had
been more affected by Fernand's doubts than he had cared to show;
he himself had not been entirely free from such doubts. But now
they were forever dispelled, and in his heart of hearts this unassuming
man, without admitting it to himself, felt relief that the sight of Jean-
Jacques in the flesh could no longer confuse him. Now the great work
would live independently, separated from the man. Only his wisdom
would remain to spread and bear fruit forever.

Monsieur Robinet and his granddaughter were also watching the
gliding barge. There was a tiny hard smile on Gilberte's large young
mouth. From the moment of his arrival in Ermenonville the man
now being rowed to his grave had brought her nothing but trouble.
He had come very close to turning her whole life upside down. He
may have been a great philosopher, and she was sincerely sorry for
Femand for having lost him in so gruesome a manner. But his aban-
donment of his children was shameful; there was no getting away
from it. She would be able to read La Nouvelle HSloise with a purer
enjoyment now that the man himself was no longer there.

Monsieur Robinet observed Gilberte's tiny smile by the light of
the moon and the torches. Ever since her father, his only son, had
perished on a journey to the West Indies to inspect his plantations,
Monsieur Robinet had given his heart to no one else. Gilberte was
all he had. He knew her through and through; he never asked ques-
tions, never persuaded, but led her by gentle hints. He had naturally
been aware that she had quarreled with Fernand, presumably about

ISO

Jean-Jacques. He guessed what was going on in her mind now and
his face, too, wore a faint smile.

The boats had reached the island. Madame Levasseur climbed
out somewhat laboriously, aided by Lebegue and Ducis. No retainers
or gravediggers were on the small island; the grave had already been
dug. Girardin and Fernand lifted out the coffin while others made
fast the boats.

They gathered around the open grave. Therese placed herself next
to Fernand, for was he not closest to her? But he did not look at
her, and this filled her with dull resentment. A man who had had
doings with a woman ought to show her a little sympathy after
such a terrible experience.

Fernand was in fact scarcely aware of Therese; he looked grimly
down and he looked into his own heart Now, in a few minutes, in a
few seconds, would sink beneath the earth the last remains of the
man who had given the world the greatest, the most important, in-
tellectual discoveries of the century. That man had been by no means
old and decrepit, neither in the flesh nor in the spirit He could have
gone on writing and teaching things profound and vital and Fer-
nand himself was to blame that this keenest of hearts and minds no
longer existed.

Monsieur de Grimm, representative of the great Century of the
Enlightenment, stood and passed judgment on the dead man and
on himself. Of all those present at the funeral he was perhaps the
only one who could justly assess Jean-Jacques's tremendous achieve-
ments, and the tremendous harm he had done. Grimm himself and
the other true philosophers, the representatives of reason, had sup-
ported Jean-Jacques with all the means in their power, had given
him advice and affection. It was Diderot, after all, who had suggested
to him the notion of the doubtful consequences of civilization, the
very notion which had subsequently made Jean-Jacques famous.
Their advice to him had been sound; they had tried to temper his
anarchic lack of moderation, call him back to order and discipline.
But he was one of those patients who spit in the face of the doctor
who prescribes a disagreeable medicine. So now Jean-Jacques had
died this ugly, dirty, violent death. Probably those two vulgar women
had something to do with it. All his life Jean- Jacques had paid more
attention to their silly jabber than to the sensible advice of France's
foremost intellects. Grimm himself and Diderot were always warning
him; they had predicted that these two women would ruin his life..

131

How consistent it was a stupid death had in fact put an end to a
stupid life. Yet it was small satisfaction to Monsieur de Grimm that
he had been right; he would a thousand times rather have been wrong,
As he stood over the open grave, sentences of the obituary he would
write on Jean-Jacques began to form in his mind. He would make a
-wonderful elegy of it, pages of enduring prose; the only question
was whether in this lament for the dead he should refer to the dead
visionary's somber end.

They began to lower the coffin. The music had ceased; there
was silence save for the lapping of the waves, the cry of startled
birds, the gentle breeze in the trees.

The silence was rudely interrupted. Ther&se gulped and sobbed,
gave a loud sniff, and lapsed into a childish blubbering and wailing.

Gently they let the coffin down into the grave, Fernand assisting.
He was burying the man who had honored him with his friendship,
a great man, the greatest in the world; and Fernand himself had
spurned his friendship and called him a fool. It was he who was the
fool. Vividly the memory came back to him of Jean- Jacques's child-
like gentleness, of how he had aroused the echoes in the wood, and
had joined in playing with the puppet theater. He felt as if he were
putting one of his puppets back into the box; in a moment the lid
would fall shut. But this was no puppet; it was Jean-Jacques. Till
now Fernand had borne himself bravely like a man, but he could do
so no longer. Although he knew that everyone was looking at him,
his father, Gilberte, his friend Martin and the other boys from the
village, he began to weep. The tears streamed down his face. Gil-
berte looked up at him. Her tiny smile had long since disappeared
and she too was weeping.

The three boats rowed back. But Monsieur de Girardin stayed
alone by the grave on the island and abandoned himself to his grief,
that sweet melancholy which he had so often heard his dead friend
extol. Verses came to him in praise of the dead; very simple verses,
but he knew they were in the spirit of Jean- Jacques, a fitting epitaph
for a great man who would now be a guest at Ermenonville forever.

Then, as Girardin had arranged, some of his men came with
plaster, sand, and an urn. They erected a memorial, a sort of altar.
Girardin helped with the work; with his own hands he shaped the
.Master's burial mound.

The work did not take long. Alone once more, Girardin lingered

132

over the grave which was now his most valued possession in gentle,
surging grief. Not till the sun had risen did he go home.

Chapter 6 A Knotty Legacy

MONSIEUE DE GIRAKDIN'S sense of duty allowed him only a few hours'
sleep. Jean- Jacques's fame was now entrusted to him; on his skill and
care depended how long the dead man's work would live.

First of all he must take charge of the manuscripts in order to pro-
tect the great legacy.

Negotiating with the women was a disagreeable task, Madame
Levasseur's hostile look stuck in his mind. But he overcame his re-
luctance and went to the pavilion early in the morning.

It worried him that the chest was no longer in its place; Madame
Levasseur had moved it into her bedroom. He took the offensive at
once. "You will recall, madame," he said, "your promise that I should
have a say in editing the works our beloved Jean-Jacques left be-
hind." Madame Levasseur realized what he was getting at and
secretly rejoiced. If the Marquis took charge of the papers they
would be safe from both Nicolas and Frangois. But she did not
betray her relief; she wanted to squeeze as many sous as possible
out of her sole possession. "Yes, I think I do," she said with circum-
spect hesitation.

"The first thing to be done," the Marquis proceeded, "is to ascertain
what unpublished works are in existence. I think, madame, it would
be best if I examined the manuscripts with that in view." "Sir,"
Madame Levasseur answered, "I know that you mean nothing but
good toward poor Jean- Jacques's widow and his old mother-in-law.
But if I am to hand over the papers to you, you must promise to be
quick in looking through them. The fact is that we need money,
and at once. The survivors of a famous man must keep up appear-
ances, and you know how poor we are/' "Have no fears about that,

133

rnadame," the Marquis hastened to reply. "As far as the financial
exploitation of the manuscripts is concerned, my lawyer will take
care of your interests as if they were my own. As for your immediate
requirements, I regard myself in honor bound to take care of my
illustrious friend's dependents. How much money do you need for
the immediate future?"

After brief reflection Madame Levasseur replied, "Two hundred
louis." The Marquis had difficulty in hiding his uneasy surprise. But
he only swallowed and said, "Then I shall send for the papers. My
men will bring with them a draft on my bank in Senlis, Valette et
Fils. I advise you to deposit the money with them, as it is so large
a sum." He bowed and left. Within the hour the draft was brought
and the manuscripts taken away.

Madame Levasseur informed her son Frangois that Monsieur de
Girardin had sent for the papers to examine them for their philo-
sophical value. The Sergeant looked glum. "I told you so, Mama," he
complained. "You ought to have left this business to me. Once one of
these grand gentlemen sticks his spoon into the porridge there's
nothing left for an ordinary chap but the empty plate." "'The Marquis
won't do us in the eye," Madame Levasseur said placatingly. "He
was always well disposed toward Jean-Jacques, and anyhow for a
grand gentleman like him the money to be got out of the writings
doesn't amount to a fart."

The Sergeant remained unsoftened. As he wasn't needed here, he
declared ungraciously, he would return to Paris at once. Would his
mother lend him ten livres for the trip? "Don't be in such a hurry to
go, Frangois/' Madame Levasseur begged. "I shall certainly be need-
ing your advice during the next few days. Stay here a while and
youll be able to take back for your affairs in Paris not ten livres but
five-and-twenty louis." Francois's face cleared. "Really, Mama?" he
inquired. 'Isn't that just dummy ham to tempt your poor mouse
with?" "What do you take your old Mama for?" retorted Madame
Levasseur, offended. "Do you think I would bilk my own dear son?"
"Twenty-five louis, then?" Frangois asked once more. "Yes," said the
old woman. And the Sergeant said, "Done."

On the following day Madame Levasseur and Th6r&se drove to
Senlis. After giving the ladies his formal condolences, Maitre Gibert
informed them that Monsieur Rousseau's death unfortunately com-
plicated the drawing up of the document which the ladies desired.
The law regarded the Widow Rousseau as an entirely different per-

134

son from the spouse of the living Monsieur Rousseau; he needed
further data and would have to redraft the document from start to
finish. Also a much larger fortune was now involved and in such case
the law provided for higher fees. He would have to make the
ladies a new price, obtain further information from them, and he
would need a few more days' time.

Madame Levasseur could barely hide her annoyance. But that
was how it was; the whole world was a forest, with a bandit hiding
behind every tree. There the fat fellow sat, quietly underlining his
boredom by drumming with his thick, lazy fingers, and squeezed
them dry a helpless old woman and her daughter, two poor wid-
ows. ^But there was nothing she could do. She knew her daughter.
Therese wanted to have things tied up so that she couldn't chuck
away everything on that lout of hers; but at the same time she did
want to chuck it away on him. She wanted to hang onto him, and so
there she sat, hoping the document would be drawn up and hoping
that it wouldn't be. Madame Levasseur could not afford to wait;
she had to have the paper that very day. There was nothing for it
but to pay this fat scoundrel of a royal notary the price he asked.

The dreadful event had told on them, she declared; they did not
feel up to making another journey to Senlis. They wanted to settle
this troublesome business today, even if it should cost a few sous or
even a few ecus more. They had a little shopping to do in the town -
mourning clothes and so on and would Maitre Gibert do them a
favor and have the document ready to be signed and sealed by the
late afternoon.

The notary looked forbidding and replied that he did not know
whether this was possible; he happened to have two other urgent
cases. The old woman asked him bluntly how much it was going
to cost. There was sharp haggling over the probable size of Widow
Rousseau's fortune; then the notary casually mentioned that he ought
really first to ask them to produce Widow Rousseau's marriage license
so that he could check the validity of Jean- Jacques's marriage. In
short, whereas he had at first asked eighty ecus he was now asking
two hundred. Six hundred livres! With the greatest difficulty
Madame Levasseur succeeded in beating him down to four hundred
fifty livres.

When the ladies returned to the notary at the appointed time the
document was not yet ready. Several clerks were working on it, they
were told, and still had almost an hour's work ahead of them.

135

Madame Levasseur had done a good deal of waiting in her long life,
but seldom had waiting been harder on her than now. The clerks
brought the pages as they finished them; the notary examined them
attentively and gave them to Madame Levasseur to read. She did
not understand all of it; there was so much lawyerish language,
Latin and other solemn foolishness in it. But she supposed that had
to be, and on the whole it seemed to her a satisfactory document.

At last the whole thing was ready. "One moment, please, mes-
dames," Maitre Gibert said. He withdrew, and reappeared in his
cap and gown. And although Madame Levasseur had already seen
through the fat extortioner, he now was a completely different per-
son to her. He was the Royal Notary, he was the Law. The Law
stood before her and her poor simple Therese; the whole sacred
might of France and the King was shielding her from that rapacious
wolf Nicolas.

With official solemnity the notary asked, "So, mesdames, you.
Widow Levasseur, and you, Widow Rousseau, you understand what
this document contains and are desirous of ratifying it by your signa-
tures?" "Yes, monsieur," said Madame Levasseur, and, "Yes, mon-
sieur," parroted Therese. Maitre Gibert turned to Madame Levas-
seur. "Would you, then, please be so good as to inscribe your name
here your maiden name, and the name, or rather names, of your
deceased husbands." Madame Levasseur signed. "And now you, if
you please, madame," the notary told Therese, "would you, too, give
your maiden name." Therese was confused and failed to understand.
"Write: Therese Levasseur, Widow Rousseau/ * her mother bade her
sharply. "Quite correct, madame,* the notary said approvingly. Clum-
sily and laboriously Therese penned her name. A clerk brought a
taper and sealing wax. Palpitating with joy and breathing heavily,
Madame Levasseur looked on while Maitre Gibert melted the wax.
Greedily she sniffed the smell of the heated wax and with triumph
in her eyes watched his fat hand press the seal into the hot wax.

Now that scoundrel Nicolas had done her poor son-in-law in for
nothing. His wickedness would be no more useful to him than a
comb to a bald man. It had brought him nothing but sleepless nights,
rancor, and nagging fear that the hangman and his wheel might
catch up with him after all.

Madame Levasseur's days, on the other hand, were full of con-
tentment and she did not regret the hundred and fifty 6cus that
she had had to pay the notary. She had built a tall, solid fence that

136

would keep her cow of a daughter from running off into the woods.

It did not particularly worry her when one night she noticed
Therese slipping furtively out of the house. Let the slut tumble in the
hay with her lout if she felt like it; at least she could not plaster him
with her louis d'or.

But Madame Levasseur was mistaken; it was not Nicolas whom
Therese had gone to meet. It was Fernand.

Yes, at last the young Count had approached her again somewhat
reserved, by the way, even grim and had asked her to meet him.
So it only had been her imagination, at the funeral, when she had
felt that Fernand no longer cared for her. Happy that they were
making up, she had at once said yes.

Meeting him tonight, she made instinctively for the familiar path
to the willow tree. But to her surprise he chose another path which
led up to the Temple of Philosophy,

He had made this rendezvous with her because he wanted to find
out once and for all whether she had known, about the murder. If
she had, then in spite of Gilberte's advice he would bring both
criminals to book even if he himself were to perish. He owed it to the
Master, and to Truth itself.

They sat down. Below them in the uncertain moonlight was the
lake and the island of the tall poplars, Therese had longed for some-
one to whom she could talk about the dreadful thing. Here was her
opportunity. She compressed all that she was dumbly feeling into
the plainest possible words. Before he could even begin with one of
his carefully prepared sentences, she spoke. Simply and sincerely
she voiced what she had thought to herself over and over again:
Isn't it dreadful?"

Hearing her speak with such naive sincerity, Fernand knew that
his mission was already fulfilled. He realized that she had had noth-
ing to do with the murder, that she had been just as cruelly surprised
by it as he himself.

He had disposed of one burden only to shoulder another. What
attitude should he adopt toward the murderer now? If he took action
against him, Therese too would be dragged down, a Therese whom
he had himself seduced, and whose betrayal of the Master had cer-
tainly been no worse than his own.

How stupid she was! What a simple, happy world she lived in as
a consequence of her stupidity.

Jean- Jacques had recognized her simple-mindedness and depicted

137

It with benevolent contempt. He had even had words of praise for
it. Gilberte with her unfailing common sense had been right: Jean-
Jacques would have forgiven Therese; just because of her stupidity
he would have absolved her of all blame.

But Fernand was not Jean-Jacques; he was no saint, and he felt
he must at least tell her what he thought about her. In a low voice
he said grimly, "And to think that it is our fault!"

"Ours?" she asked in genuine astonishment.

Of course, she did not understand what he meant and it was hope-
less to try and explain it to her. A dull, impotent rage seized him.
This lump of sheer stupidity was the reason why the world had been
deprived of its greatest teacher! He looked at her coldly in the un-
certain moonlight. Below them was the lake and the island. He
could no longer understand what he had seen in her.

She sensed his hostility. He was angry again, as he had been at
the funeral^ and she had absolutely no idea why. "Say something
nice to me," she begged him, and took his hand.

He drew it back. "Listen to me," he told her sharply. "I forbid you
to meet that scum, that murderer. You are not to see him again,
never!" Now she understood his anger, and she was almost happy.
So he had figured it out for himself that Nicolas had done the dread-
ful^ deed for her sake, for love of her. Her young count was jealous.

"I deserve to have you talk to me like that, Fernand," she said
submissively. "But when I began going with Monsieur Nicolas you
hadn't come yet, and I was very lonely and my life wasn't easy; I
told you that. If I'd known that you were going to come to help me
in my loneliness then I wouldn't have gone with Monsieur Nicolas.
But now this awful thing has happened and if someone did it, he
did it for me. So I can't be hard on him; you must see that, Fernand.
I am still all muddled. Give me time. I haven't met him since it
happened. I haven't spoken to him once." As he said nothing, she
repeated, "Give me time, Fernand." And with clumsy raillery she
concluded, "After all, with Jean- Jacques scarcely under ground you
wouldn't want to do it with me right away, would you?"

Below them lay the lake and the island. He looked at her with
revulsion. "Do it with you?" he asked. "I don't want anything to do
with you. You are not to soil the dead man's memory. You are not
to lie with this cur by his grave, a stone's throw from his grave. That
is all I want from you. And I shall never want anything else from
you again. Never! Now do you understand?"

138

She understood. And now a dull hatred gleamed in her animal
eyes. "So that's what you are!" she said. And she searched for words
of abuse, put them together into unwieldy sentences and spoke them
with relish in her husky voice. "First you mess around with me and
then you say nasty things to me. And you call yourself a count, a
future seigneur! I m sorry for every minute I let you mess about with
me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! And you poked around in
his writings, too you gentleman, you aristocrat! Always in secret,
always underhanded. Do you know what you are?" she fumbled for
words. "You're a sneak, a coward, a milksop, that's what you are!
And you think you can order me about! But you can't! I will do it
with Monsieur Nicolas whenever and wherever I choose. He's not
as mean as you are. He knows what a gentleman does when he loves
a woman. I belong to him, not to you!"

He had risen to his feet She remained seated in the uncertain
light, motionless; the words emerged so slowly from her large mouth
that he had time to grasp it all. He had read the Confessions and
he understood. She was grateful to the stableboy because he had
killed her husband for her sake. Fernand recognized, as the Master
had, her utterly innocent depravity.

She looked him full in the face. He could not endure her proud,
contemptuous gaze. In his eyes were rebuff, hatred, disgust, fear.
With a brusque movement he turned away and left her.

All these days Nicolas had been lurking around the pavilion. But
Therese had felt it would be indecent to meet him so soon after the
horrible event. After her quarrel with Fernand she avoided Monsieur
Nicolas no longer.

She loved him with all her being. Her love transported her, and
she invented pet names for him. She called him 'Colas, my Colas/
and playfully, 'my darling pug nose/ or even, 'my Mister Tattersall/

139

Chapter 7 The Dangerous Truth

MONSIEUR DE GIRABDIN read the Confessions. He was startled, re-
pelled, fascinated. He found it difficult to control his agitation. The
same man who had written the Nouvelle Heloise, who had strolled
about Ermenonville in tranquil melancholy this same gentle man
had been scorched by such murky fires.

And if he, Jean-Jacques's friend, was so profoundly disturbed by
the Confessions, what effect would they have on the thousands who
would read them with tepid, cold, or outrightly hostile feelings? How
all these enemies and obscurantists with their dirty minds and dirty
thoughts would root among Jean- Jacques's secrets; what vile things
they would shout from the housetops! No, he must not abandon
these dangerous truths to the benighted rabble.

But had not Jean-Jacques wanted the work to be published after
his death? Who was he, Girardin, to withhold from the world against
the Master's will this new, terrible and exciting message?

He let Jean-Jacques's friend Ducis read the manuscripts, The poet
was startled by what they revealed, and he shared the Marquis's
doubts.

Meanwhile it developed that Jean-Jacques had entrusted copies
of the manuscripts to certain friends in Geneva: Pastor Moultou and
Monsieur Dupeyrou, who was half American. He had given these
gentlemen instructions to publish the works after his death, which
they now proposed to do. The Marquis appealed to them with elo-
quent letters, trying to dissuade them. But Pastor Moultou cited Jean-
Jacques's unqualified honesty and his express wishes in the matter
and pressed for immediate publication of the Confessions. After
much arguing back and forth a proposal of Ducis's was adopted. They
decided to embark on a great new Collected Works, the last volume
of which would contain the posthumous writings. Girardin was im-
mensely relieved; publication of the dangerous truth had been put
off for at least three years.

140

He had reckoned without Madame Levasseur.

Meanwhile several publishers had approached Therese with a
view to acquiring the literary estate, and Madame Levasseur urged
the Marquis to sell the manuscripts now when they would go like
hot cakes. Monsieur de Girardin explained his own ideas about their
publication. She realized at once that if his plans were followed it
would be years before she could lay her hands on any fat sums, and
she objected. "But if we do not wait," the Marquis retorted indig-
nantly, "we shall endanger Jean- Jacques's fame; all his friends are
agreed on that." "We two poor widows can't indulge in any such
delicate considerations," protested Madame Levasseur. 'We need
our money. We've had to wait long enough because of my son-in-law's
quirks. I'm not letting any more philosophy stand in our way now.*'

Vexed by the old woman's opposition, the Marquis replied, "You
force me, madame, to touch upon a matter I would rather not have
mentioned. There are passages in the manuscripts which could hardly
enhance the reputations of yourself and your daughter."

The old woman was furious. First Jean- Jacques had been a lifelong
burden to Therese with his repulsive malady; he would have been
dead and gone years ago if it hadn't been for her. Then he had
robbed her of her children. And now, in return for all this, he was
insulting her from the grave the fool, the philosopher! But she
controlled her feelings and said calmly, "These disreputable passages
need not be published. They could just be left out. My son-in-law is
dead and won't notice."

Girardin was outraged. "Madame," he replied sharply, "there can
be no question of pruning or distorting Jean-Jacques's works. No pub-
lisher would stand for such a thing. I myself would never permit it,
nor would any of his friends." "Very well," said Madame Levasseur
unperturbed, "so the disreputable parts stay in. People like us will
swallow many a rotten egg for a pile of louis d'or."

Girardin regarded Madame Levasseur with mounting fury. While
she and her daughter had not directly had a hand in Jean- Jacques's
abominable end, they were the immediate cause of it. And now this
fat, grasping old crone wanted to rob the dead man even of his fame.
The time had come to speak plainly. "I have already informed you,
madame," he began, "that His Britannic Majesty's Exchequer has not
yet replied to my question as to whether continued payment of your
deceased son-in-law's pension will be authorized. Nor has the Lord
Marshal decided whether to continue paying the allowance he used to

141

give him. After publication of these memoirs, which are so injurious
to you and your daughter, you would hardly be able to count on re-
ceiving any more money from either source."

Madame Levasseur perceived bitterly that it was tough for com-
mon folk to stand up for their rights against a grand gentleman; the
highborn pack stuck together. But she still did not give up her case.
"Now we see," she complained, "how stranded we are by the loss of
our dear Jean- Jacques." She fixed her hard little eyes on the Marquis.
"And to think," she said slowly, softly, emphatically, "how easy it
would have been to avoid this loss!"

As she had hoped, this touched the Marquis on a raw spot. He
had swallowed the old woman's silent reproach at Jean-Jacques's
deathbed, but he had no intention of putting up with outspoken in-
solence. "What's that?" he asked her sharply. "Please explain
yourself!"

The old woman did not flinch. "What is there to explain?" she
answered, and there was unmistakable scorn in the knowing look
she gave him. "I'm no judge and no priest and no philosopher, and
what's done is done. But I warned you in good time, sir; remember
that, please. And if you'd listened then to the advice of an old
woman, a person of no standing, of course, but one who knows the
world and keeps her eyes open, many things would have turned out
differently, sir."

For a moment the Marquis almost choked with rage over this
disgusting attempt at blackmail. But he kept a grip on himself. She
had hoped for a speedy inheritance and the manuscripts were all
she owned; it was understandable that in such a situation so vulgar
a person might lose her head and put together all sorts of queer tales.
For the moment the main thing was that there should be no gossip
about the Confessions. He would have to stop her vulgar mouth with
money; and after all, in caring for the women he would be acting in
accordance with Jean-Jacques's wishes. "I appreciate your difficult
situation," he said stiffly, "and excuse your exaggerations. I am will-
ing,'* he offered haughtily, with barely concealed dislike, "to assume
responsibility for the payment of the English pensions until further
notice. You may regard that as an additional advance on the
manuscripts."

Madame Levasseur had doubted all along that the payment of the
English pensions would be continued; she was surprised and de-
lighted at the Marquis's offer. She said, "Please forgive an old woman

142

who has had so many troubles in life, if at times she is a little out-
spoken. I've known all along that you mean well by us two poor
widows and won't leave us in the lurch." And she withdrew, well
satisfied.

Girardin for his part felt he too had done well. He had acted as
Jean- Jacques's faithful friend and as the faithful custodian of his
work.

He stood looking at Houdon's death mask. A profound, melancholy
peace lay upon the face, a peace which made doubly terrible the
deep gash, the mark of the wound, the fearful cavity which extended
from the lined forehead all the way down the right temple. Vividly
the Marquis recalled the conversation he had had with the sculptor
when he saw the mask for the first time. "You cannot patch up the
er unevenness on the right side a little, monsieur?" he had asked
in an unusually tentative tone. "No, monsieur," Houdon had an-
swered shortly. Since Girardin had read the Confessions the wound
had gaped more menacingly than ever. Heaven knew what tales the
scandal-mongering rabble would fabricate, what sinister interpreta-
tion they would put upon the gash, once they had the chance to nose
around in the Master's life history.

Fabricate? Suddenly it hit him the realization that there was
nothing to fabricate. He had been deceiving himself all this time,
had deliberately shut his eyes. Why, hardly an hour ago he had tried
to dismiss the old woman's horribly explicit words as a blackmailing
lie. Now, all at once he knew: these 'fabrications' were the truth.
This fellow Nicolas had 'Speak out,' he commanded himself Jiad
killed Jean-Jacques.

His knees went weak; he had to sit down. He was to blame; the
old woman was right in putting the blame on him. He should not so
recklessly have disregarded his intuition that time he had found his
secret keyboard disarranged. And he had been warned a second time
when the dog had disappeared, and yet a third time when the old
woman with her plain common sense had asked him to get rid of
the fellow. He ought to have acted then; he ought to have sent the
brute away.

And yet, was he really to blame? Had he not had good reason to
regard the rumors concerning Therese as sheer gossip? Had not Jean-
Jacques himself had faith in her? The Confessions showed it. Ought
he to have been cleverer than the Master?

Yes, he ought to have been just that. Jean-Jacques had a right to

143

believe. It was Jean-Jacques's mission to be perspicacious in big
things, not in trifles, not with regard to this slut of a Therese. But he,
Girardin, who knew the ways of the court and the world and had
commanded an army, he had no right to be less clever than old
Madame Levasseur.

What should he do now? What could he do? Even if he had seen
the whole thing as clearly when he stood over the body as he was
seeing it now, he would have had to lie and keep silent. Once he
had allowed Nicolas to stay, once he had made that initial mistake,
he was committed to further lies and further silence and to a hun-
dred other contemptible, dishonest actions in order to suppress the
truth.

He could not punish the murderer, but he could do one thing: he
could put an end to the woman's sinister association with him. He
could dismiss him in disgrace.

He summoned Nicolas.

Curtly and sternly he asked whether Nicolas was still performing
services for the ladies at the pavilion. With insolent civility Nicolas
answered, "Yes, sir. As there is little to do in the stables I devote part
of my time to the ladies." "Are you on friendly terms with the Widow
Rousseau?" the Marquis asked bluntly. "Widow Rousseau is not
averse to me," Nicolas answered. Then with a faint grin he added
coolly, "I'd be getting in my own way if I failed to cultivate the
friendship."

"You are to leave Ermenonville!" Girardin snapped at him.
"Today!"

Having got away with it for so long, Nicolas had thought that the
whole business would flicker out like a tallow candle a bit of a stink,
and then it would be forgotten. Probably that bitch of an old jade
had been keeping after the boneheaded Marquis. Be that as it may,
for the time being Nicolas had to admit defeat. He answered im-
pertinently, "If you imagine my going will enhance Monsieur the
philosopher's reputation " He shrugged his shoulders. The Marquis
raised his stick. Nicolas did not flinch. "You can't thrash out of me
my friendship with the Widow Rousseau, sir," he said politely.

"My bailiff will receive instructions to arrest you," Girardin rapped
out, "if you trespass on my property." "Don't worry, sir," said Nicolas,
"I've seen all I want to of the sights of Ermenonville."

Now that Girardin had swept this ordure out of his house, the
nearness of the women began to fill him with almost physical aver-

144

sion. Unfortunately, he could not very well chase Jean-Jacques's
widow and her mother from Jean- Jacques's last resting place without
causing a scandal. But at least he wanted them out of the pavilion,
out of his sight.

The Swiss chalet was ready, the little house he had had built for
Jean- Jacques. The women were invited to move into it.

For the last time, filled with sweetly melancholy thoughts, Girardin
sat upon the tree stump on the edge of the forest from which Jean-
Jacques had once watched his house being built. It was ignominious
and absurd that these women instead of Jean-Jacques should be
taking possession of it. But here they would be out of sight.

They moved in, and henceforth Girardin avoided the neighbor-
hood of the Swiss chalet.

Chapter 8 Expulsion of the Evil One

GIRABDIN HANDED over to Fernand the herbaria which the dead
man had so lovingly arranged. They had come into the Marquis's
hands together with the manuscripts. But botany had lost its charms
for Fernand; he was not able, as the Master had been, to evoke
living memories of people and events from dried plants.

In his memory Jean-Jacques was growing in stature, but in his
heart of hearts he had to admit it his outlines were becoming
more and more indistinct.

He tried to dissociate the sense of his own guilt and failure from
his grief over the Master. Since his father had driven Nicolas away,
many a complication had unraveled itself. And now that the women
had moved into the Swiss cMlet so that he rarely saw them, he was
able for hours and even days on end to forget Therese and the
ghastly matters connected with her. He readily allowed Gilberte
with her sound common sense to convince him that the whole mess
was over and done with.

At times, however, when he looked at the death mask, he would

145

again be assailed by the burning desire to expiate, to do something.
The death mask with the gash, not the solemn portrait bust, was
the real Jean-Jacques,

He noticed that the villagers, too, were still whispering about Jean-
Jacques's death. Often they would fall silent when Fernand passed by.

Once he asked Martin Catrou straight out, "What is the matter
with you? Why are you always whispering? And why do you stop
when I come near you?" Martin grinned. "Can't you figure that out
for yourself?" he asked in his sharp, strident voice. "They're talking
about that dead saint of yours, of course." "And just what have they
thought up?" asked Fernand with an unsuccessful attempt at irony.
"Thought up?" said Martin, lifting his broad shoulders. "Why, exactly
what the whole country is thinking up." Fernand reddened. "May
I ask you to speak a little more plainly," he challenged Martin, and
as the latter stood silent, merely studying him with his black, intel-
ligent, mocking eyes, he said imperiously, "I'm asking you to tell
me." "If you use that tone, Count Bregy," Martin answered, "then I
think we'd better call off our pleasant conversation for today." "Do
tell me, please!" Fernand entreated him. "Must I drag each word
out of you?"

Martin looked at him. Fernand, although no fool, was dense
about certain things because he was an aristocrat; but he couldn't be
so dense as not to know what all the world knew. "Do I really have
to tell you?" Martin asked again. "Tell me, go on/' Fernand insisted.
With a shrug, Martin replied, "Well then, if someone croaks like that
or has been croaked then, so people think, and I think, and the
whole world thinks, somebody ought to strike a light and look into it a
little more closely. You haven't looked into it. First you thought worlds
of him, but then, when your stableboy bashed his head in, you simply
shoveled him under and that was the end of it You see, we don't care
for that sort of thing, we ordinary people." Fernand had known ex-
actly what the people were saying, but now that he was hearing it in
so many words it was such a shock that his expressive face was con-
torted with horror. "Bashed his head in? Our stableboy?" he stam-
mered foolishly. So much stupidity or hyprocrisy, or both, irritated
Martin. "Who else?" he asked brutally. "Everyone knows that your
sainfs wife was hot for the English stableboy and the saint was in
their way. They wanted to get rid of him. It's as plain as the nose
on your face."

Fernand stared at Martin with helpless rage. Martin, annoyed at

146

his friend for being so damnably naive, yet at the same time sorry
for him and feeling rather helpless himself, elaborated, "She was hot
for more than one, that lady."

Fernand was shaken to the depths of his being. So Martin knew
everything. They all knew everything. Stupidly he thought to him-
self, 'Piget, pudet, poenitet? He clapped his hands over his face in
shame.

Martin was sorry for him. At the same time he was glad that he
had told him what's what, the aristocrat And while he was about it,
he went on, "I don't know what your sort think about such things,
but we of the lower class think it's a stinking scandal. First he goes
and does Jean- Jacques in, that English stableboy with his impudent
mug. Then, over the grave, he carries on with the man's wife, and
you just stand by and look on. Well, we say it stinks to high heaven.
I tell you, one of these days somebody's going to catch the swine
when he comes away from her and beat him black and blue."

Fernand stared at his friend. "But our Nicolas is gone," he said,
disconcerted. "My father sent him away long ago." Martin was scarce-
ly less surprised. "Oh, you sweet innocent!" he mocked. "Of course
he's here, the bastard. Where are your eyes? He's at Conde's: It's not
very far from Conde's to your place."

This was monstrous! But Fernand believed Martin. The Prince de
Conde was fond of playing tricks on his father.

He roamed wildly in the woods, burning with rage and shame.
Even the peasants felt that they should do something, and he himself
did not lift a finger. Was he made of stone? He would put a stop
to that depraved female's fornicating with that lout, over the grave.
Even if he had to shoot him like a mad dog.

He went straight to Girardin.

"You ordered your English groom off your estate, Father," he said.
"But our friend the Prince de Conde has taken him on. He's still
hanging around the neighborhood and meeting Madame Rousseau."

The bailiff of Ermenonville had already informed the Marquis in
his daily report that a certain Nicolas Montretout was still in the
neighborhood. The bailiff had been about to go on when Girardin
had interrupted him to ask, "Has he been seen in Ermenonville?"
And when the bailiff had said no, Girardin had been satisfied. He
was annoyed with his son for forcing the affair to his attention again.
"Stupid rumors," he said. "You vex me." But Fernand persisted: "They
are not rumors. That fellow never stopped seeing the woman.

147

Everybody knows it; everybody's talking about it. You must do some-
thing, Father, I beg you to do something about him, something that
will stop him once and for all."

His son's insistence and accusatory tone irritated the Marquis.
Never before had Fernand presumed to criticize his father, and his
friendship with Jean- Jacques was not sufficient explanation for such
audacity. The boy must have more potent, more personal reasons.
All at once Girardin remembered how Fernand would sometimes
slip away from the dinner table and from Jean- Jacques. So that was
it! Fernand, too, was mixed up with that trollop.

Almost with relief he vented his anger on his son. "And why, may
I ask, are you repeating these rumors to me?" he demanded sternly.
"How dare you lecture me?" Fernand blushed deeply and made no
reply. Girardin went on remorselessly, "Have you anything to confess
to me, Count Bregy?"

Fernand was thoroughly exasperated. He had overcome his own
rekictance, had done his unpleasant duty in informing his father
that the murderer was still swaggering about openly enjoying the
fruits of his evil deed which was a disgrace to Ermenonville. And
the seigneur of Ermenonville replied by suggesting that Fernandas
own motives were suspect. He felt ashamed for his father.

He recalled the petty tyrannies his father had practiced for years,
how he had badgered and harassed him in order to subdue his
spirit. He remembered how his father had broken his violin, and he
thought of the dreadful years in the Military Academy to which his
father had insisted on sending him. Suddenly an absurd, ignominious
episode long buried in the past came to his mind. Once when he had
gone on a hunt and was already deep in the woods, his father had
sent a man riding after him with the order that he was to return at
once. "Monsieur," his father had said to him, "yon forgot to close the
door of your room. Close it, and then you may go back to the hunt."

On the other hand his father had also shown his love for him in
many ways. He had taken him along on that journey through Italy
and Switzerland, although a young boy must have been a good deal
of a nuisance on such a trip. And shyly, almost covertly, he had found
a hundred different occasions for displaying tenderness toward his
son.

Fernand now looked at his father angrily, critically, but at the
same time with love, for he perceived all too clearly from Girardin's
tightly controlled features that he too was suffering. He was a man

148

of pride and principle. Certainly the desire to expiate the evil deed
burned as hotly in him as in Fernand himself.

But concern for the prestige of Ermenonville loomed large, over-
shadowing everything else. The seigneur of Ermenonville could not
allow a scandal over Jean-Jacques's death to stain the honor and
glory of his house.

"I am waiting for an answer," Girardin said.

Haltingly, courageously Fernand confessed: "Yes, I myself have
been terribly guilty in having relations with this woman. But for that
very reason," he continued passionately, "it's vital to me to see
this fellow driven away once and for all. He must not be allowed to
hang about here, soiling the Master's memory. Perhaps it is imperti-
nent of me, Father, but once more I beg you fervently: put an end
to this disgrace! It is breaking my heart." And wildty; his features
drawn, he concluded, "It's no longer possible to breathe the air of
Ermenonville."

No one had ever before used such language to the Marquis. No
one had ever had to remind him to protect his honor, and the last
person from whom he would tolerate such reminders was his own
son. His hand rose to hit Fernand. Then he saw the death mask. His
hand dropped. Consciousness of his own guilt surged up in him.

But he would never admit this guilt to anyone else. He searched
for stern words to rebuke his rebellious son. And failed to find them.
Mildly, wearily, he said, "You are bewildered by your grief for Jean-
Jacques, my son."

Once again Fernand understood his father's perplexity. After a
long pause he asked in a low, courteous tone, "What have you de-
cided, Father?" Girardin answered, "I shall go to Paris, to the Chief
of Police."

The Chief of Police, Monsieur Lenoir, showed no particular sur-
prise when the Marquis urged upon him the deportation of his erst-
while groom John Bally, alias Nicolas Montretout. He had a large
file brought in, and after referring to it remarked, "I see that we
considered deporting the fellow when you first discharged him. But
we dropped the idea when His Highness the Prince de Conde took
him on. What you have just told me, my dear Marquis, changes the
situation. We are at war with England; an Englishman with as bad
a reputation as all that has no business on our soil. I will order his
deportation."

The Marquis was agreeably surprised at how easy it had been.

149

But it bothered and puzzled him that the Chief of Police seemed to
know all about the events at Ermenonville. So Paris had not been
deceived by the certificates of the doctors and officials. Had he not
undertaken too much in pledging himself to conceal the sinister cir-
cumstances of Jean- Jacques's death from the world and posterity?

Nevertheless he had gained his immediate objective. The murderer
would have to disappear.

Only a few days later Nicolas did in fact receive an order signed
by the Chief of Police in person, giving him one week to remove
himself from all the lands subject to the Most Christian King and
not to set foot on them again on pain of severe punishment.

Nicolas spat noisily and whistled between his teeth. He had to
admit that the old hag and that puffed-up Marquis had put one over
on him. He had to take it.

But Mister John Bally was not the man to give up anything he'd
set his mind on. For the time being he would leave the country, but
sooner or later the war would end, and then all this would be for-
gotten and he would come back and fetch the woman, and with the
woman the papers and the money.

The first thing to be done was to make sure of Therese. He must
put his brand upon her.

As soon as night fell he went to the cMlet. The women were just
about to lock the house and go to bed. When she saw Nicolas enter,
Madame Levasseur was momentarily panic-stricken. The chalet stood
isolated in the park, far from the chateau; the loudest screams for
help would be unheard.

"Good evening, madame," Nicolas said politely. He turned to
Therese: Good evening, my angel. I want a word with you."
Therese, too, was afraid. Something serious must have happened or
Monsieur Nicolas would not have come here, especially at this hour.
At the same time she was proud of his daring in showing himself in
Ermenonville for her sake. "I want to speak to you alone/* Nicolas
went on. But the old woman had recovered from her fright. "Get out
of here, you dog," she commanded calmly and quietly. "You see, my
Therese?" Nicolas said. "Your mother doesn't want our conversation to
take place in her presence either. Just as I suggested. Come on, then."

For all her love for Nicolas, Therese was terribly afraid of him.
He must want her to do something fishy. She was ready to do any-
thing for him; but still, it was good her mother was: there.

"You stay here, Therese," the old woman said quietly, "And you

150

get out, you scoundrel." Nicolas came a little closer. But Therese
moved a step nearer to her mother, and when the old woman took
her hand she clasped her mother's hand tightly.

Nicolas shrugged. "The old woman has quirks/' he commented.
"One minute she wants us to talk outside, and the next in here.
I'm a man of the world; I respect old age. All right, let's stay here.
To be sure I'd have particularly liked to tumble in the hay with you
tonight, Therese, my beloved. The fact is, you won't be seeing me
for a while. This is a farewell call."

"You want to go away?" Therese asked. Her heart leaped into her
throat. Never before had she thrilled with such deep awareness of
how much she loved this man. If this wasn't the great love which the
songs told about, then there was no such thing. She had thought she
loved Robert, the butcher's apprentice, but that had been nothing
compared to this. She was thirty-eight and had thrown away her
life in the serving and the nursing of Jean-Jacques. Now the great
love had come to her and she could enjoy it; no one stood between
them any longer. She even had money. And now he wanted to
go away!

"You want to go away?" he mimicked her. "I don't want to go away
in the least. I've got to go away, because of you. Your darling beau,
that young cavalier of yours, got us into this mess!" Suddenly all
his savagery burst out. "That's what's come from carrying on with
that greenhorn. Now he's jealous and is hiding behind tie police,
that lousy, lily-livered aristocrat!^

Madame Levasseur's heart was singing paeans of rejoicing. So she
had brought it off after all: the scamp had to go, and she would stay!
She took a firmer grip on Therese's hand, inwardly imploring her to
have just a little sense, just for a few minutes more, and then they
would both be safe and so would the money and nothing could
happen to Therese again. The old woman steeled herself. She held
a silent dialogue with Therese; implored, scolded, exhorted all
with the pressure of her hand. And she felt that Therese for all her
lust was afraid of the fellow and trusted her mother. Therese would
stay where she was: he would fail.

A little hoarsely Therese asked, "When have you got to leave and
when will you come back?" "I'm going tomorrow," he said, "and I
don't know when I shall come back." "I'll wait for you," she prom-
ised, "or perhaps come after you. Someday I'll be free." He enjoyed
it to the full: there she was spilling out her heart to him; there she

151

was clinging to her mother's hand and wishing her dead. Now he
felt he had her. She would wait.

"Of course it would be nice if we could celebrate my farewell out-
side," he tempted her. Her whole body cried out for him. She leaned
toward him, but the old woman's hand helped her to keep her head,
and she clung to that hand. He shrugged.

"The war won't last forever," he said, "and then 111 come back."
And he added, "See to it that in the meantime the old lady doesn't
throw away too much money on her pet, our sergeant from America.
How much money is there, anyway?" he asked brutally. ''Wouldn't
you like to know!" the old woman sneered at him. "You've got to pull
out, and you're not sure it's worth your coming back. You see, your
Therese hasn't the faintest idea how much it is. And anyhow, it's
so tied up that no miscreant can get at it." "You underestimate my
devotion, madame," said Nicolas. "I will come back. I'll take the
chance. Whether it's a lot or a little, Therese and I belong together."

"And you don't need to be jealous of the young Count, Monsieur
Nicolas," Therese assured him. "I was taken with him for a time
I must admit that. But ever since you " she fumbled for the right
word "since you did that for me, I've known where my heart be-
longs, and now 111 never look at anyone else/' "There's a good girl,"
Nicolas praised her. In his words the old woman could detect all
the contempt he felt for her poor Therese.

"Well, since there's nothing doing in the hay tonight," he remarked,
"I suppose I may as well be off. I'll let you know my address." "Yes,
do write to me," Therese begged, "write often!" "I write a miserable
French," he answered, "and even if it were good you couldn't read
it." "I'll find ways of working it out," Therese answered humbly. "I
doubt that," he said. "If others aren't to understand it I'll have to
express myself damned cleverly, and I'm afraid you haven't much in
the top story, my beloved." "I'll understand you, my Colas," Ther&se
assured him.

"I'm not a count, nor a rich man," he said, "but I've brought you
something as a farewell present." He came quite close to her. "Give
me your hand," he asked. "No!" her mother commanded. "Give me
your hand!" he ordered her for the second time. And now she de-
sired only to do his will, even at the cost of her poor soul. She freed
her hand and held it out to him.

"I won't hurt her," he told the old woman. "Here," he said conde-
scendingly to Th6rese, slipping a ring on her finger, "This is a be-

152

trothal, do you understand? A marriage. It's at least as valid as
your union with the departed. Now you belong to me/* he declared,
"and I belong to you in a way/' "Yes, Colas, my dear Colas/' Therese
replied obediently. She was trembling all over with happiness, pride,
and fear. This was the most important event in her life.

Chapter 9 Royal Comedy

KING Louis, the sixteenth of that name, sat in his library at Ver-
sailles studying secret reports from Lenoir, his Chief of Police. The
twenty-four-year-old monarch was fond of reading and doted on
government records.

He came across an item to the effect that a certain John Bally,
alias Nicolas Montretout, groom to the Prince de Conde, formerly
groom to the Marquis de Girardin, had been deported. Bally's asso-
ciation with the widow of the late writer Jean- Jacques Rousseau had
given offense; and he was moreover an Englishman.

The young King had an excellent memory. He distinctly recalled
the confidential reports he had read on this man Rousseau's death.
There had been doubts as to whether the writer had really died of
apoplexy. Sinister rumors had been mentioned, and this English
groom's name had come up even then.

Louis sat at his desk, bulky and awkward. With one hand he was
supporting his large head with its fleshy cheeks and receding fore-
head. His shortsighted, slightly bulging eyes were fixed pensively on
the porcelain statuettes of the great dead poets which adorned his
desk La Fontaine, Boileau, Racine, and La Bruyere. He had had
the delicate figures made in his own factory at Sevres. Those were
writers after his own heart, believing in God and in God's appointed
order. Writers like these no longer existed. He had to contend with
rebels and atheists, with Voltaires and Rousseaus.

He meditated on the evil seed these philosophers had sown. It
had sprouted well and sprung up in rank profusion. They had cor-

153

rupted his court and his capital city with cynicism and heresy.
His nobles were amusing themselves with the rebellious spirit
rising all over the world; they were playfully sawing away at the
branch on which they sat. His ministers had persuaded him to con-
clude an alliance with the rebellious British provinces of America
against his English cousin. It was the road to destruction he had let
himself be driven onto. But he was too weak; he could not stand out
against the general will. "The General Will* was he not himself
employing a phrase Rousseau had thought up? He knew that in the
end he would even be sending troops to help those seditious Ameri-
cans against their King whom God had set over them. All this he
saw it, but he alone would ultimately turn against himself.

It was a proof of divine mercy that these two revolutionary phi-
losophers had to die an ignominious death so soon after one another.
Voltaire's corpse had been smuggled away secretly by night and
buried with indecent haste, and fortunately the disreputable circum-
stances of this burial continued to taint the memory of Voltaire. And
then the other heretic had died an inglorious death murdered by
his wife's lover.

Immediately after Rousseau's death Louis had considered ordering
an investigation. But his Prime Minister had raised questions. The
philosopher was held in honor all over the world, he had argued;
his renown was one of the glories of France. So now they had de-
ported the murderer in order to keep the rebel's memory unstained.
Was it not his duty as the Most Christian King, to make public the
facts about the heretic's sordid death? Would not this counteract the
unwholesome allure of his writings?

When Chief of Pblice Lenoir next had an audience with him, the
King remarked, "I see, my dear Lenoir, that you have deported a
groom who had an affair with the widow of that fellow Rousseau.
Haven't you acted a little hastily? Won't this deportation hamper the
investigation into the rumors about that bothersome philosopher's
death?" "We have in our possession," Lenoir replied, "an unimpeach-
able certificate, signed by respected doctors and officials, attesting
that Monsieur Rousseau died of apoplexy." Louis nullified the cer-
tificate with a sweep of his hand. "And have you discovered the
actual cause of death?" he asked. "What about that groom? Isn't he
said to have killed him? Has it been conclusively proved that he is
innocent?" Lenoir answered circumspectly, "Conclusive proof, either
of one sort or another, would be hard to come by. And there are

154

patriotic citizens in France who regard this lack of proof as an ad-
vantage to the country." "Justitia fundamentum regnorum" Louis
observed. "And the Archbishop of Paris does not regard it as an
advantage, I imagine. I don't recall having given orders to desist
from .legal proceedings." After a short silence the Chief of Police
said, "If you wish, Sire, I will send the confidential reports to the
Public Prosecutor with the request that he report to Your Majesty."
"Thank you, Lenoir," said Louis.

A few days later Doctor Lebegue appeared at Ermenonville in a
state of unwonted agitation. He greeted Girardin hastily and in-
formed him that there was something in the wind which concerned
them both. Girardin looked up, perturbed. Doctor Lebegue ex-
plained: "Don't be surprised, my dear Marquis, if an investigating
commission turns up in Ermenonville by special order of the Pro-
cureur General. The King feels it is desirable to clarify all questions
regarding Jean- Jacques's death. I heard about this from Doctor Las-
sone, the court physician." "But everything has been clarified!" cried
Girardin in alarm. "There's the certificate your certificate isn't
there?" Lebegue shrugged his shoulders: ''Regis voluntas suprema
lex." "Are we never to be done with this wretched affair?" Girardin
moaned. "Surely they can't start legal proceedings on the strength
of idle gossip." Offhandedly, Lebegue replied, "In such cases they
usually exhume the body."

The idea that police officials might cross the lake to the island of
the tall poplars, shove the gravestone aside, rudely thrust spades
into that hallowed soil, and snatch the body from its coffin to muti-
late it further this horrible picture threw Girardin into a panic.
"What can I do?" he asked Lebegue in desperation.

"The King is slow-moving," the doctor answered. "It will take
him a while before he makes up his mind to order the investigation.
We must take advantage of the interval. Persons who are close to
the King must do what they can to influence him. Jean-Jacques is
fashionable, and the Queen's circle follows the fashions. Aren't you
related to the Marquis de Vaudreuil? The Queen does what Vau-
dreuil tells her to."

Girardin made a sour face. There was no love lost between him-
self and his cousin Vaudreuil. Vaudreuil, frivolous and superelegant,
was a courtier through and through. Girardin regarded his literary
and philosophic leanings as sheer affectation. Vaudreuil, for his part,
made fun of his country cousin's intellectual aspirations. "I don't see/'

155

Girardin said uneasily, "how I could induce Vaudreuil to intervene
in criminal proceedings in which the King is interested/' "It could
be done indirectly/' Lebegue suggested. "Vaudreuil and the Lilac
Coterie dote on the Nouvelle Heloise. The place where Jean-Jacques
spent his last months and where he is buried might well have a
piquantly sentimental attraction for these ladies and gentlemen.
Vaudreuil would hardly refuse if you were to invite him to visit
Ermenonville again with the Queen/'

Girardin saw what Lebegue was getting at. Vaudreuil stood high
in Marie Antoinette's favor; she always accepted his suggestions*
And once the Queen visited Jean-Jacques's grave it would be out of
the question to desecrate this grave by scandal. Jean- Jacques would
be left in peace forever. And so would Girardin.

He drove to Versailles, As he had anticipated, Vaudreuil's recep-
tion of him was ironical and condescending. It was painful to have
to ask a favor of this dandy, but Girardin swallowed his pride
and did so. As his cousin was aware, he said, it had always been his
humble and fervent hope that the Queen, the creatress of the Tri-
anon, would come to see his Ermenonville. And now that France's
most illustrious philosopher was buried on the soil of Ermenonville,
the Queen might herself wish to visit the gardens.

Vaudreuil enjoyed the spectacle of his country cousin straining to
act courtly. He understood the situation. Fat Louis's idea of stir-
ring up a scandal over Jean-Jacques's death struck Vaudreuil as
being in bad taste, and the thought of playing a trick on Louis
appealed to him. To stand by Jean- Jacques's grave with the elegant,
laughter-loving Queen would be a piquant situation, a parable
fraught with irony. Even now he smiled to himself at the thought of
how this pilgrimage would touch the hearts of all Europe. The school-
books of the future would tell the edifying tale of how the young
Queen Marie Antoinette and her lord-in-waiting had decked the
seditious philosopher's grave with wild flowers.

"You are right, Cousin," he said. "Her subjects will certainly be
grateful to the Queen for honoring the shades of their beloved phi-
losopher. I will warmly recommend your invitation to Madame/' he
promised graciously, "and I am as good as certain that Madame will
accept. My cousin, you may expect our visit in the near future. Ma-
dame will pay her respects to Jean- Jacques's grave and express her
condolences to his widow/'

This last touch was a sudden inspiration. It would spice the joke,

156

would be high comedy royal comedy if the Queen of France
condoled with the person who bore most of the guilt for the philos-
opher's sordid death.

Girardin was outraged. He would have liked to slap his cousin's
smooth, cocky, handsome face. But unfortunately what Vaudreuil
suggested was logical and seemly; Girardin saw no way to reject it
Moreover, with this diabolic inspiration his cousin was unintentionally
rendering Girardin another service. For once Her Majesty had
graciously condescended to speak to the instigator of the crime,
Therese would cease to be the instigator, and the crime would never
have taken place, "Thank you for your helpfulness/' Girardin said.
"I shall await with respectful eagerness further word from Her
Majesty."

And in fact, a few days later the Queen with a small retinue drove
up to the gates of Ermenonville.

After breakfast she set out on a tour of the park. In Gabrielle's
Tower, Girardin gave a short concert for her; songs by Jean- Jacques,
mostly unpublished ones, were played. The tall, blond, radiantly
youthful Queen was delighted with the simple melodies. She even
sang one of the songs at sight; she was musical and had a pleasant
voice.

After this they went down to the lake and the Marquis rowed
Marie Antoinette and Vaudreuil across to the island. A full three
minutes they stood by the grave in silence. Then, as planned, the
Queen of France decked the simple memorial with wild flowers.

"Pretty," she remarked. "Pretty and full of atmosphere. Here he
can rest peacefully. I have had parts of the Nouvelle Heloise read
aloud to me," she informed Girardin. "I have even written and told
my mother the Empress about it She wasn't very pleased. All the
same I fully intended to hear more. But you know, my dear Marquis,
how my time is taken up. I never get around to the things I like
best. Now, after having stood by this grave, I shall certainly go on
with the book. Remind me of it, please, my dear Vaudreuil."

Later, gracefully seated on Jean- Jacques's grassy bank under the
willow tree, Marie Antoinette received the homage of the village
youth. She was used to such occasions, and while a girl dressed in
white recited verses, she listened with an air of friendly attention,
and thought about something else.

But now Vaudreuil turned to Girardin and declared that it was
nearly time for them to start back, and that Her Majesty wished to

157

express her condolences to Jean-Jacques's bereaved relatives.

An almost imperceptible mischievous smile crossed the Queen's
face. Vaudreuil had told her the story of the great philosopher's
unfortunate marriage. How he had married some poor creature, had
sent her children to the orphanage, and had finally, because the
woman had hated him ever since, been disposed of in some shady
way by his wife and her lover. The story had to be suppressed,
Vaudreuil had explained, because Jean- Jacques was one of the glo-
ries of France; but it was true, and an interesting case. Marie An-
toinette had agreed with him, and she had come principally to see
this fateful creature.

The women had at first refused to believe it when they were told
that the Queen wished to see them. Even Madame Levasseur, usu-
ally so composed, was excited. As for Therese, for the first time it
dawned on her what it meant to be the Widow Rousseau.

So there they stood, and this was the Queen.

Marie Antoinette regarded the woman with interest and a faint
shudder of distaste. This man Jean-Jacques had written such a
pretty and touching, and famous book; great ladies had vied with
each other to have affairs with him; and then he went and lived
with this vulgar, uncouth person and let himself be killed by her
lover. How odd. Marie Antoinette would have liked to examine the
person through her lorgnon to see whether there might possibly once
have been something attractive about her. But that would not be
seemly, so near the grave. The Queen could not even write her
mother that she had been here. Though her mother would undoubt-
edly hear about it all the same and would send the Austrian Am-
bassador to give her a respectful but emphatic lecture. Her dear fat
Louis would grumble too. But it was piquant to be talking to the
woman, and she looked forward to telling her friend Yvonne and the
other members of the Lilac Coterie about it.

"I have been to your husband's grave, my dear," she said in the
serious, kindly, yet not too condescending tone she employed to indi-
cate her sympathy with the common people. She had learned from
her mother how to deal with such people. The Hapsburgs knew far
more than other monarchs about the art of being affable. "What a
frightful blow to you," she went on. And then she added in a low,
confidential voice, "I have heard of what you have had to suffer be-
cause of your husband's somewhat rash philosophy. For all his great-
ness he was rather odd in some ways. I can imagine what you must

158

have felt, madame, when you lost your dear little ones."

'He must have been a great man after all, our old fool/ thought
Madame Levasseur, 'or the Queen wouldn't be making such a fuss
about him. The papers are sure to go up in price now. I hope the
Marquis gets that across to the publishers. If only Therese wouldn't
behave quite so stupidly! She could at least cry a bit, the cow!"

But Therese just stood there dumbly in a blissful stupor. What
a gracious fine lady she is," she thought 'And so pretty! And her
cavalier, he's so elegant and handsome. And they've all come to see
me! What an honor! A pity Jean-Jacques didn't live to see this. And
what a shame Monsieur Nicolas isn't here to see It!' But still she
found no words.

"Yes, madame," Madame Levasseur came finally to her daughter's
aid, "my dear Therese has been through a great deal. But then he
was a great philosopher, after all, our poor Jean-Jacques, and so we
had to put up with his penchants. I always told my Therese: 'What
you are suffering is for the glory of France.' "

1 must think of something agreeable to say to this dreadful old
woman too,' thought Marie Antoinette, 'or 111 never hear the end of
it from Vaudreuil.' "At least you have your dear mother," she told
Therese. "That is always a great solace, as I know from my own
experience. When I am in a difficult situation it always gives me
strength to think of my mother, the Empress in Vienna." "Yes, ma-
dame," said Therese, and kissed her hand. And Madame Levasseur
assured her, "For all my remaining years I shall pray for Your Maj-
esties, for you madame, and your High and Mighty Mother."

So ended Marie Antoinette's visit to Ermenonville.

In coming here, the Queen herself had set the seal upon Lebegue's
report concerning Jean- Jacques's death. There was no further reason
for hope or fear that the gash in the dead man's temple and on his
death mask would be investigated again.

159

Chapter 10 Fernand Sees the Light

SINCE THE murderer was deported, Fernand thought his task was
done and the air of Ermenonville pure once more.

The comedy by the grave showed him how mistaken he was. The
Queen of France, in a gracious, sisterly gesture had extended her
hand to the woman who shared the guilt in the Master's death! In
the light of this charming and utterly depraved performance Fernand
had realized that the murderer was not alone to blame. He had been
confident that no one would move against him, and he had been right.
The mighty ones of the land had shut their eyes to the ghastly deceit
surrounding the death of the most truthful of all men. They had,
moreover, deliberately falsified the manner of his dying, shrouded it
in a fog of lies* The truth was not wanted; everyone was conspiring
to trample it underfoot.

This perception shook Fernand like an earthquake. His whole
world collapsed.

Heretofore he had not given much thought to his future; it was
already marked out for him. After a few years in the army or in the
diplomatic service he would retire to the country, to Ermenonville
or one of the other domains. With Gilberte at his side lie would
manage his estates by modern methods, seeing to the physical and
spiritual welfare of his tenants and peasants. Above all, he would
read and think, possibly even write.

Now he saw that this could not be. He could no longer endure
living in Ermenonville. He could no longer endure his father who
was trying by paltry expedients to patch up Jean-Jacques's shat-
tered image. Nor could he endure the gardens whose artificial serenity
and peace were given the lie by the murdered man's grave. He could
no longer live in this landscape which was hallowed, possessed,
cursed and tainted by Jean-Jacques's experiences and his own.

160

Nor was it Ermenonville alone. He began to question the value of
all this philosophizing and subtle introspection. Sitting still, reading
and meditating about life and the world and one's own soul was not
enough. More than anyone else Jean-Jacques had grasped the world
and its relationships in the round. He had looked more deeply than
anyone else into his own heart. But he had been blind to the real life
all about him. He could fly but he could not walk.

The gulf between Jean-Jacques's life and Jean-Jacques's teach-
ings struck Fernand as more frightful than ever.

Without philosophy you could not take part in making life mean-
ingful. But philosophy, theory by itself, was not enough. Theory had
to be tested by reality, made to conform to it. You had to lay hands
on solid, physical reality, rub up against it, let yourself be buffeted
and abraded by it. You had to learn from your own sweet and bitter
experiences what was wholesome and what was not.

This was what Jean- Jacques had taught His Saint-Preux did not
kill himself in his despair; he went forth to a life of action, took part
in the great voyage around the world.

He himself must go out into the world. Alone, without tutor and
attendants. His journeys with his father to England, Italy, and Switz-
erland, those sheltered, academic tours, had been no help to him at
all. He must see the real world, not the world of guidebooks. Must
see it with his own eyes, feel it with his own hands

Of course Gilberte would not be happy about his being away for
years. Yet she would understand. She must understand.

The very next day he went to talk with her.

If you looked at Jean-Jacques's death mask from the left, he ex-
plained, it was noble, sublime, serene. If you looked at it from the
right, there was the deep gash and all tranquillity had fled. This
cleft cut not only across Jean- Jacques's temple, it cut across the whole
of France. Here were two incompatible truths. No one could help
seeing this: what should be and what actually was, were now far
apart.

Fernand paced back and forth. His words were tumbling over each
other. There was so much that he had discovered and had to tell her,
and he wanted to say it all at once.

Gilberte did her best to understand him. "So you no longer believe
in Jean- Jacques?" she summed up practically. Fernand was horrified
that he had expressed himself so bjydly. "But of course I believe in
him!" he cried. "More than ever. But his teachings have remained

161

words. People parrot them, mouth and chew on them, but no one
acts by them. I had not found the way from words to reality either.
I only went dreadfully astray."

Gilberte did not understand what he was getting at. She asked
bluntly, "And have you found the way now?"

In a blaze of illumination Fernand suddenly saw. Just running
off anywhere in the world was not enough. A part of the world, a
definite part, was calling him. "There are people who are acting by
Jean-Jacques's teachings," he declared, afire with resolution. "Not
here; away across the sea. I want to go to them. I am going to them."

What mad idea had he got hold of now! Gilberte looked at him
and pondered silently. This war somewhere in the wilderness might
be the right thing for the American rebels with their Washington and
their Franklin, but surely not for a Count Bregy, the future seigneur
of Ermenonville. All very well to hope fervently that the Americans
would win, but that didn't mean you had to throw your lot in with
them and endure all that hardship and dirt and danger. Almost in-
voluntarily she shook her head.

Happily, Fernand ranted on, "So you see, there was some point
after all to my going through those two awful years at the Military
Academy. There is a Providence; Jean- Jacques was right about that
too. In titie end, evil and stupidity have their purposes." He became
aware of her disbelief and disapproval and redoubled his efforts.
"You must understand me, Gilberte! These frivolous dandies at Ver-
sailles, this queen with her fancy Trianon, this corrupt Court with
its stale perfume of the vanished glories of the past all that is no
life. The people who fritter away their time there are no good for
anything but coining bons mots, dancing gavottes, and play-acting in
pastoral idylls. All that is dead and rotting. None of these ladies and
gentlemen has the slightest idea what the common man is, or even
that he exists. I was right in always refusing to go along with that
nonsense." And he concluded boyishly, yet with manly defiance,
"Now I know where I belong. Now I know what I have to do!"

*Qa y est so there it is,' Gilberte thought. That was what her
mother had always said when, as frequently happened, she found
herself facing a calamity; it was one of the first phrases the little
Gilberte had picked up. 'New troubles pour out of a clear sky,' she
thought, *but something of this kind was bound to come of his crazy
devotion to that wicked old fool And unfortunately with him it's more
than mere words; he's stubborn and fanatical/

162

"And what about me?" she asked quietly but with bitter anger.
"Am I, too, part of what's. 'dead and rotting?*'

For a moment Fernand was disconcerted. Then with a pretense
of firmness he said, "You will come too, of course.*

Gilberte considered Fernand unusually intelligent but not exactly
practical That he could be so unrealistic had not occurred to her.
"Have you considered how we are to do this?" she asked, trying to
conceal her anger. "There is war and wilderness over there. I can't
imagine that they would have any use for me. You say it's a long
way from the teachings of your Jean- Jacques to reality. Maybe you'll
be going astray again in joining those people over there."

He was hurt at her saying 'those people over there/ and even more
hurt that she had said 'your Jean-Jacques/ She was drawing a line
between them. And at the same time she was not altogether wrong;
it would be difficult to carry out his plan.

After a pause he said rather lamely, "If we recognize what is right
and desire it strongly enough, everything else can be arranged."

This vague nonsense was the last straw. "And suppose I can't 'ar-
range it'?" she asked. "If I stay here, will you go all the same?" That
sounded more challenging than she had intended. She was afraid he
would say, 1 will stay here,' and afraid he would say, 1 will go.'

Fernand said, a little haltingly, "When the decision came to me I
thought it a matter of course that we would go over together."

Gilberte realized that they would quarrel if the conversation con-
tinued. "Think it over, Fernand," she said. "Think it over quietly.
I'll think it over too."

Fernand lay sleepless that night.

He searched his memory for remarks by Jean- Jacques which might
confirm his decision, comments on America and the fighters for free-
dom. He found none. At table the Master had conversed on many
topics, but seldom on the vital topics of the day. He had indeed
taught: 'Go to the roots and everything is connected with politics/
But while the whole world rang with the struggles of the American
insurgents, he had scarcely given this struggle a thought The Master
had really been concerned startled, Fernand had to admit it
only with his theories, with plans for his building. How the building
was to be constructed from these plans had not interested him.

Were not these thoughts blasphemy? Had not enough injustice been
done to Jean- Jacques already? Was even he to betray Jean- Jacques
and question his teachings?

163

Femand got up and stole out of the house. He went down to the
lake and rowed over to the island of the tall poplars. There he knelt
by the grave and sought enlightenment from the dead.

'Vitam impendere vero Dedicate your life to Truth.' Jean- Jacques
had adopted these proud, uncompromising words of Juvenal, and
inscribed them boldly above his Confessions. As Jean-Jacques's faith-
ful disciple Fernand must stand by his own truth.

He rose. Important decisions had to be made by yourself; no Mas-
ter, no philosophy could help. When the going was hard you were
thrown back on your own intelligence, your own heart, on yourself
alone. No one helped anyone.

He went home. He was not in need of advice, neither from the
dead nor from the living. Even Gilberte would not dissuade him.
He would carry out what he had resolved.

Hitherto his life had been lived for him; from now on he would
live it himself.

In the morning, as soon as he saw his father, he would inform him
of his decision, his irrevocable decision. He would not wait until he
had seen Gilberte again.

He found his father in a mood of serenity. The unpleasant comedy
that Girardin had been forced to stage was over and done with. From
now on he could devote himself undisturbed to the cult of Jean-
Jacques. It was in such a mood of tender exaltation and tranquil
melancholy that Fernand found his father.

Succinctly Fernand informed him that he had decided to adopt
the cause of Jean-Jacques's disciples, the American freedom fighters.
He was going to serve in General Washington's army. He asked for
his father's blessings and assistance.

Thus rudely jolted out of his agreeable melancholy, the Marquis
decided to treat his son's request as an extravagant youthful fancy.
He answered simply, almost gaily, "You have gone mad, my dear
Count"

Fernand held himself in check. "Do you call it mad," he asked,
"to try to apply Jean-Jacques's principles to real life?" Monsieur de
Girardin shrugged. "You can't apply Jean-Jacques's principles to
real life as easily as that," he lectured his son. "Jean- Jacques was not
particularly interested in crude reality; he was concerned with the
nature of things underlying the surface."

It exasperated Fernand that his father, to refute him, should
bring up the very notion that Fernand himself had just discovered

164

with such chagrin. "Are Jean- Jacques's teachings to remain no more
than nebulous feelings, then?" he asked rebelliously. "Is his wisdom
to be nothing but elegant decor?"

Girardin remembered how Fernand had demanded Nicolas's dis-
missal. On that occasion the boy had made him feel like a school-
boy who had failed in his lessons. He was almost glad to have
caught his son out in such a colossal folly. "My boy," he reproved
him, but still gently, "I see you have misunderstood the nature of
philosophy. Philosophy poses problems; its function stops there. To
find the solution to these problems is a matter for the individual. The
right solution can only be found if the pupil immerses himself,
with love, reverence and" he raised his voice slightly "self-
discipline, in the Master's teachings."

"That is exactly what I have done, Father/' Fernand said quietly
but firmly. "I have drawn from Jean-Jacques's teachings the conclu-
sions that apply to myself. They are logical conclusions. The Decla-
ration of Independence of the United States is based upon Jean-
Jacques's doctrines. The demands of the Social Contract are better
fulfilled in the American Republic than anywhere else on earth. If I
contribute in a modest way to what is being done over there, I shall
be living according to the wisdom of Jean-Jacques." With mounting
fervor he concluded, "That is how you taught me to live, Father."

Girardin regarded his son in silence. This was open rebellion.
Nevertheless he was still reluctant to assert his paternal authority.
He considered practical arguments that might bring Fernand to his
senses. Since the alliance with the United States had been concluded,
no doubt a French army would be sent overseas. That would be
some time away. If Fernand should want to join this army, the matter
would bear discussion.

But before Girardin had finished considering this, before he had
a chance to speak, Fernand lost his carefully preserved composure.
"Please, Father, don't treat me like a puppy," he burst out. "I know
I'm young. But young people understand Jean-Jacques better than
others. He once said himself that only the young could fully under-
stand him."

At this point Girardin's patience gave out too. "Are you telling me
I don't understand Jean-Jacques?" he retorted angrily. "Are you
setting yourself up as his official interpreter? I suppose you think you
have an option on him because of your philanderings with that
female, his wife. You are impudent, my boy, more than impudent.'*

165

He drew himself up and pointed his stick at his misguided son.
"Enough of this! I order you, do you hear me, I order you once and
for all to give up such silly, immature ideas'/*

"Thank you for this interview, Father," Fernand said. "Now I know
your opinion/' He bowed and withdrew.

Chapter 11 Fernand Acts

GILBERTS HAD not been able to fall asleep that night either; she was
thinking over what Femand had told her.

So life here was dead and rotting! Certainly there was much that
was empty and affected, and sometimes in the midst of the flurry
in Paris or at Saint-Vigor she had sensed why Fernand despised the
Court and the city. But most of the time she had enjoyed life there
with all her heart. To take part in that commotion year in, year out
would be unbearable; Fernand was right about that. But wasn't it
settled that most of the year would be spent in the country? And
she enjoyed being in the country, with Fernand.

It was easy for him to talk. He had been born on top; he had no
idea what it meant always to be on one's guard, always to be strug-
gling. He made fun of the pilgrimage the two of them would have
to undertake in Versailles to obtain the King's permission for their
marriage. But she herself looked forward joyously to this pilgrimage:
when it was over she would be rid of her bastard-nobility. The bur-
den would fall from her; she would enjoy the rights which made life
pleasant. She recalled the distress and humiliation her mother had
had to go through because she had not belonged to the privileged
class. She remembered how terrible she herself had felt a short while
back at the foundling hospital, and she could have cried for joy when
she thought of how smooth a path would open out before her own
children.

Of course it was wonderful that Fernand had such bold ideas and

166

she loved him for it. He had no truck with the sham, and everything
about him, good and bad, was genuine. Once they were living to-
gether she would be able to talk to him about everything, even about
the ultimate, most intimate things, fantasies and notions she scarcely
dared acknowledge even to herself. No, she didn't need any America
or any adventures. Once they were together her life would be rich
and exciting enough.

And if Fernand found life here in France so devoid of quality and
purpose, couldn't he try to give it purpose? Couldn't he try to make
reforms here? To make it unnecessary, for example, for men like
Jean- Jacques to put their children into foundling homes?

Suddenly, unsought for, that song of Jean-Jacques's came to her:

The lover who gave me joy

Has sailed for a foreign land.

For New World treasures he forsook

His love, and death defied.

Why seeks he joy across the sea

That he here already has?

She was seized with sudden fury against Jean-Jacques. He had
brought misfortune to everyone. Even from the grave, that mad fa-
natic was trying to rule her life.

She understood Fernand. She understood that he must always go
the whole way, and by the most direct route. But even though she
understood him a hundred times over, her whole being rebelled
against his plan. She loved him as much as one human being could
ever love another and here he was ready to plunge into war, ready
to run off into the wilderness, on account of the theories of a crazy
old man. And what was to become of her? How was she to bear
waiting for him? And what if he if something happened to him?

She wept and raged. Her mind turned this way and that, seeking
some loophole, some conclusive argument. Her inner battle went on
till sleep came.

The next day Fernand rode over to Latour in a mood of cheerful
resolution. Now that the die was cast and he had spoken to Ms
father, everything was clear and simple. Gilberte would scarcely be
able to accompany him; she was right about that. But she would
understand his intentions. Her lucid mind and her brave spirit would
accept the delay as he was accepting it

Gilberte turned pale with anger as he reported on his interview

167

with his father. Fernand had acted and committed himself as if she
simply did not exist. She was wounded to her very heart.

With an effort at calm she asked him, "And what do you mean to
do now?'* Prepared for this question he replied, "There is the inher-
itance from my mother. I shall raise a loan on it in Paris, arrange
for my departure, and in four weeks, at the most, be at sea/'

Gilberte asked, as she had asked yesterday, "And what about me?"
"We marry before I go, of course/* he replied. Very quietly she
asked him, "And will the King give his consent if your father does
not give his?" "In that case we'll marry without anyone's consent,"
he answered without hesitation, "and I will renounce Ermenonville.
I never shall betray Jean-Jacques's philosophy or my own." "And
what do you think my grandfather will say?" Gilberte pursued her
questioning. "Or do you want me to renounce my inheritance as
well?" She spoke with bitterness. How forthright would she have
to be before he saw what sacrifices he was demanding of her? She
would not admit to herself that his mind was made up already. She
wanted him to decide again, now that he was face to face with her.
But she was afraid of his decision, wanted to defer it, wanted an
ally against him. Before he could reply she went on, "The first thing
we must do is talk to Grandfather." Fernand demurred. "What would
be the point?" he asked. "Monsieur Robinet would have no sympathy
at all for my ideas." "Grandfather loves me," Gilberte countered,
"and he knows what you mean to me. If anyone can help us it is he."
Fernand, still unconvinced, agreed.

When Gilberte came to her grandfather with the story of Fernand's
plan, Robinet saw himself saddled with a knotty problem. He knew
that Gilberte's lot in the world would not be easy, because she be*
longed to the lowest category of the nobility, the noblesse bdtarde.
Hence he had welcomed the idea of her marriage to a Girardin, for
it would relieve her of this handicap. He had no objection to Fernand
as his granddaughter's husband. He was even pleased at the young
man's opposition to the conventions and mode of life of the aristoc-
racy. Highly as Monsieur Robinet esteemed the practical value of
the aristocracy's privileges, for the bearers of these privileges them-
selves he had nothing but robust and thoroughgoing contempt.

Therefore he had every reason to approve of the young people's
marriage. But if the boy were to go to America and stay there for
a long time the marriage would be even more to his liking, for he
would not be losing Gilberte's company. He loved the girl and could

168

not imagine life without her. On the other hand he knew how the
separation would tell on his Gilberte.

Cautiously he inquired, "How will you feel if your young Count
really goes to America?" "He wants us to get married first/' Gilberte
said without enthusiasm. Then, helplessly, impulsively she added,
"Please give me your advice and assistance, Grandfather."

Monsieur Robinet sat there, square, solid, dependable. There was
even something like a smile on his broad red face. Gilberte had told
him about Fernandas clash with his father and Robinet was secretly
gloating over the Marquis's troubles. It served Girardin right for
hobnobbing with his wild philosopher. Now he would have to turn
all sorts of logical somersaults, this believer in freedom, before he
could make freedom unsavory to his son. But Robinet was sure the
Marquis would do his mental gymnastics, would turn heaven and
earth to keep the lad from embarking on this escapade. "I think,
my child, well be able to make the young gentleman see reason,**
he comforted her.

Fernand was invited to luncheon at Chateau Latour on the follow-
ing day.

"Before I go off for my nap, my dear Count," said Robinet after
the meal, "there are one or two questions I would like to ask you.
I hear you want to leave us, that you want to go to America and
join the rebels. What are your motives for this?" Fernand was not
prepared for the old man's dry civility. But he gathered his wits
together and answered, "I want to help in the realization of Jean-
Jacques's great principles." ''When Jean- Jacques himself thought it
necessary to flee," Robinet argued mildly, 'lie didn't go to the land
of freedom but to your father in Ermenonville." "Jean-Jacques did
not need to preach his ideas to the Americans," Fernand answered
promptly. "They had been understood there already. Jean- Jacques's
task was to proclaim the idea of freedom; our task is to carry it into
effect." "You are an excellent debater, monsieur," Robinet acknowl-
edged, "but as to the situation in America you are not well informed.
I have business interests in the West Indies and a competent agent in
Philadelphia. I know from reliable reports what America needs. She
does not need volunteers, she needs money. You'll be doing America
and the cause of freedom a greater service, Count Bregy, if you send
them a few thousand livres than if you go over to them in person."

Fernand recalled what the Sergeant had told him, Madame Le-
vasseur's loud-mouthed son. There was a grain of truth in Monsieur

169

Robinet's words. Aware that his argument was taking effect, the old
man continued, "You will answer that you are counting on the im-
pression your act will make a gentleman of your rank, heir to Er-
menonville, going to Join the rebels. You will call attention to the
prestige which accrued to the Americans from Monsieur de Lafayette's
daring action. But while Monsieur de Lafayette's gesture made sense
at the time, it would now be a superfluous one. Before long the King
will be sending the Americans a trained and equipped army. Why
don't you wait until then and join this army? So much is certain,
Count Bregy, you will be helping the cause of freedom very little
if you go off into the jungles now. You will only cause our Gilberte
sorrow and anguish."

Fernand listened, his face bleak. It was reason that Monsieur Rob-
inet was advancing: the dry, cold reason of Grimm and Diderot,
Jean-Jacques's enemies. Fernand had nothing to set against this cold
reason save the dictates of his heart But these dictates were all that
mattered, nothing else, and Gilberte would understand.

"I cannot counter your logic, monsieur," he said frankly, <c but I
beg you to try to understand me. All that has happened in Ermenon-
ville Jean- Jacques's dreadful death and everything connected with
it, and finally the Queen's visit has wrought havoc within me.
I know that what has happened and is still happening is a texture of
falsehood. It's wrong. Everything is wrong in this country. But of
this I am more certain than anything else: Jean- Jacques's philosophy
is not just something for Sundays, and I must try to live by his
teachings. It's no good using reasoned arguments against this feeling
of mine. I must do something. It's for my own sake too that I'm
going across. I can't go on just trifling with ironic remarks about the
falseness of our society. I'm done for if I go on living like this. I must
act. I must fight I must. Please understand me!" he begged, almost
in despair. He was talking to Robinet, but his words were meant for
Gilberte.

Gilberte was conscious of his distress, yet she was thinking, He
talks only about himself. And what about me? What is to become of
me?'

Monsieur Robinet had done his best. He saw that arguments were
of no avail against Fernandas puerile nonsense.

"When do you intend to leave France, monsieur?" he asked practi-
cally. "As soon as possible," Fernand replied. "In a month at the
latest** "And what do you propose to do about Gilberte, Count

170

JBregy?" Robinet asked. "I have always thought of your relationship
with my granddaughter as a kind of engagement What is to be done
about that if you are to be away for an indefinite time?'* "What I
thought," replied Fernand, "was fiat Gilberte and I should marry
first." "You ride at full gallop, sir/' observed Robinet. "And what
then? Assuming that this marriage takes place, do you propose to
consummate it before you go off to fight for freedom?"

Gilberte blushed at her grandfather's plain speaking. But she was
grateful to him for making Fernand see what was at stake. She loved
Fernand, she belonged to Fernand. And Fernand belonged to her.
He belonged to her!

"When a man goes to war/' Robinet went on, 'lie must be prepared
for anything. Have you considered, Count Bregy, that Gilberte might
find herself a widow at the age of eighteen or nineteen?"

Fernand had already been overcome with shame and anger at the
coarse old man's crudity in summoning up a picture of himself lying
in bed with Gilberte. Now he burst out, "It is not polite to bury me
before I'm dead, monsieur."

Monsieur Robinet remained unmoved. "I'd be a poor guardian for
my Gilberte if I left her in the lurch out of mere politeness," he ob-
served. He drew himself up and assumed a businesslike tone.
"I will put it bluntly, sir. I gave my granddaughter permission to
marry you and I shall stand by my word. But the assumption was
that the heiress of my properties and fortune would be marrying the
future seigneur of Ermenonville, A marriage without the King's con-
sent is out of the question. I do not want to have you reproaching
my Gilberte someday with, *I renounced Ermenonville for your sake.' **

Fernand considered. At best it would be three or four months be-
fore he could obtain the King's consent. "If that is how you see it,
monsieur," he said stubbornly, "then unfortunately we'll have to post-
pone our marriage till my return." Robinet brushed Fernandas words
aside with a wave of his hand, "You can't seriously expect such a
thing of Gilberte, Count Bregy," he said. "Let me sum up the posi-
tion: if you marry Gilberte now, with the royal consent, then you
have my permission. If you go to America without having married
Gilberte, then the engagement is broken."

Fernand swallowed. He was very pale. Obviously Robinet was
forcing him to choose between America and Gilberte.

"Please consider, sir, what I have explained," Robinet concluded,

171

once again very polite, "and let us know, shall we say within three
days, what your decision is."

GUberte, too, had grown pale. Fernand looked at her broad, open
face. Hoarsely, with an effort, he brought out, "Monsieur Robinet
has said, 'Let us know your answer/ Does Monsieur Robinet speak
for you too, Gilberte?"

'Now he must decide/ she thought bitterly, triumphant, and tense
with fear. *Or must I decide? No, he! He must decide! Grandfather
is right. What he wants to do is folly and sheer madness!' "Yes, Fer-
nand," she said aloud, "Grandfather speaks for me too.' 7

Fernand bowed to Robinet. "I can give you my answer now, mon-
sieur/' he said. "I cannot take your advice. I cannot." He spoke
sullenly, with helpless rage; the words dropped from his mouth like
stones, each one separate from the other. "Adieu, Gilberte," he said,
and left the room abruptly.

Three days later he went to Paris. With difficulty he raised money,
with difficulty he procured passage, and took ship for America.

172

PART THREE

PILGRIMAGE TO THE GRAVE
THE VILLAGE AND THE SOCIAL CONTRACT

EXIT MADAME LEVASSEUR

GILBERTS AT VERSAILLES

THE SUITOR^ RETURN

FATHER AND SON

THE OTHER GILBERTE

WHOSE JEAN-JACQUES?

THE GRIEVANCES OF THE TOWN OF SENLIS

JEAN-JACQUES'S PEOPLE

FLY OVER THE WORLD, TRICOLOR!
LOYALTY, BUT TO WHOM?

Go to tke roots and everything
is connected witK politics.

JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU

Do not talk to me of Fate I
Politics is Fate.

NAPOLEON

Chapter 1 Pilgrimage to the Grave

STUNNED BY his grief and anger at Fernand's desertion, Monsieur de
Girardin threw all his energies into the cult of the dead Jean- Jacques.

He ordered a tombstone in Paris to replace the provisional one and
began to refashion his Ermenonville into a framework and back-
ground for the grave. Once again rising ground was leveled and little
hillocks raised; there was much planting and weeding and felling
of trees. Sayings of Voltaire were removed and words of Jean-Jacques
carved in their place. Jean- Jacques's favorite haunts were unobtru-
sively yet unmistakably marked out, and everything led to the shrine,
to Jean- Jacques's grave on the island of the tall poplars.

An even more pressing task than the reorganization of the gardens
was the publication of Jean-Jacques's works. Girardin was thoroughly
familiar with the literary estate and he had the Master's own authen-
tic interpretations of obscure and seemingly contradictory passages;
he felt he ought to have a decisive voice in the matter. The other
editors, however, the gentlemen in Geneva, by no means always fell
in with his views. Pastor Moultou, in particular, proved quarrelsome.
It became evident that they would have to talk things over, and the
Pastor promised to come to Ermenonville in the near future.

In spite of all these activities, Girardin could not always escape
an oppressive sense of loneliness. He bitterly missed his rebellious
Fernand. And there was not even Monsieur Robinet to pick quarrels
with. Robinet had taken his granddaughter abroad for a long tour;
apparently it was not easy for Mademoiselle de Latour to get over
the separation from Fernand.

Often the Marquis would conduct imaginary disputes with Fer-
nand; he would recall, word for word, that last decisive conversation.
He had been absolutely right. Should he have given ground to the
silly boy? But it grieved him that he could dispute with Fernand
only in his imagination, and he asked Count Vergennes, the Foreign

175

Minister, to instruct the French envoy in Philadelphia to keep an
eye on the lad.

There was one person to whom the Marquis could confide his
cares: Monsieur Gerber. Gerber was still there; he had surprised
Girardin by proposing of his own accord that he remain in Ermenon-
ville to help with the editing of Jean-Jacques's works. The talented
young man would surely have had no trouble finding an attractive
post, but he preferred to share the elderly Girardin's rustic solitude.
He wished nothing better, he declared, than to dedicate the rest of
his life to the shades of Jean-Jacques and the study of his teachings,
and for that purpose what worthier and more suitable place could
be found? From Jean-Jacques he had learned once and for all what
the world ought to be like; further exploring its reality was no longer
worth the trouble. Girardin gladly accepted his offer.

He took his meals with Monsieur Gerber, exchanged reminis-
censes of Fernand with him, discussed the alterations of the gardens,
the editing of the Collected Works. To his surprise the young man,
for all his shyness, expressed decided opinions. He too knew his Jean-
Jacques, he too had heard interpretations of obscure passages from
the Master's own lips, and sometimes he met the 'autos epha of the
Marquis with an 'autos epha of his own. At which the Marquis
would look stern or make some offended, ironical reply.

On one occasion he remarked that Monsieur Gerber's language
was rather out of place when addressed to the man whose salt he
ate. Whereupon Monsieur Gerber stayed away from the next meal,
and from the following ones. On the third day the Marquis sought
him out He was not hard to find, for he was sitting under the willow
tree playing his violin. Monsieur de Girardin declared that perhaps
he had been rather violent in defense of his version, but that Mon-
sieur Gerber had also displayed a lack of gentleness unbecoming to
a disciple of Jean-Jacques. "So let us be friends once more," he con-
cluded, transferring his stick to his other hand and holding out his
right to Monsieur Gerber. Gerber deliberately laid his violin down
on the grass and took Girardin's hand.

Pastor Moultou from Geneva made Ms promised visit Paul-Claude
Moultou was of the same age as the Marquis: a gentleman of placid
temperament and slow, impressive eloquence. He brought his manu-
script of the Confessions with him, as well as letters from Jean-
Jacques which might serve to explain various passages. When the
two manuscripts differed, the Marquis always favored the less dis-

176

creditable version. But Pastor Moultou sternly insisted that Jean-
Jacques's motto, 'Devote your life to Truth/ had not been empty talk,
and that the dead man's friends must not deny the Master. Monsieur
Gerber generally sided with Moultou. Girardin was secretly infuri-
ated by these two border-Frenchmen, the Swiss and the Alsatian.
But he had to yield, particularly since, to his discomfiture, Moultou
was able to produce lengthy and extremely cordial letters from
Jean-Jacques.

While Moultou was still at Ermenonville an event took place which
Girardin had been awaiting eagerly for a long time: the tombstone
was completed. It was a simple and dignified altar with classic lines,
at one with the island and the gardens. On it, in relief, were scenes
recalling Jean- Jacques's works, especially mile. There were joyous
and grateful women and children whom Jean-Jacques had freed
from the bondage of foolish prejudices; there was naked Truth bear-
ing the torch of Enlightenment; there was Nature in the guise of a
mother suckling her children. On one side of the altar was the inscrip-
tion, e lci repose I'homme de la nature et dela verite* "Here lies the
man of Nature and of Truth'; on the other, Jean-Jacques's motto,
'Vitam impendere vero?

Secretly the Marquis had hoped that Femand would come back for
the dedication of the tombstone. Through the French envoy in Phila-
delphia he had kept Femand informed of the progress of the work
on the memorial, and he had even postponed the eagerly awaited
installation. But no word came from Fernand.

Present for the dedication were the artists who had executed the
memorial, Hubert Robert and Lesueur; the sculptor Houdon; and
Lebegue and Ducis. Then there were Moultou and Gerber, and
Girardin had naturally been compelled to invite the women.

The little memorial stood in the midst of the tall, slender poplars,
blending with its surroundings with a serene nobility. It was en-
twined with evergreen and ever lovely periwinkle, the dead man's
favorite flower. When Therese caught sight of the fresh greenery she
gulped and gave a loud sniff.

Girardin and Ducis spoke. They were at pains to be brief and
unpretentious. Even Moultou, famous preacher that he was, limited
himself to two simple sentences.

A few days later Moultou set out on his return journey to Geneva.
When he said good-bye, the Marquis could not refrain from asking,
"I suppose you have heard the rumors concerning our friend's death?"

177

"Yes," said Moultou. "Of course it is all the purest nonsense/* Girardin
observed. Moultou said nothing. "I dismissed that groom neverthe-
less," Girardin went on, "so that the rumors should have nothing to
feed on." Moultou made no reply to this either.

Among the many who made etchings of the grave was the cele-
brated Jean-Michel Moreau, Keeper of the Royal Engravings. Soon
the island of the tall poplars became known all over the world, and
the poplar was henceforth regarded as the tree of freedom.

Pilgrims thronged to the grave. A Paris newspaper wrote, 'Every
religion has its holy places; now philosophy too has its shrine: Jean-
Jacques's grave. Half of France has already gone on pilgrimage to
Ermenonville, and many people have taken a vow to make this
pilgrimage to the Gallic Mecca an annual event/

The Royal Princes came; the Prince de Ligne and Gustav the
Third of Sweden came; accompanied by his grandson came the
Ambassador of the United States, Benjamin Franklin Tanibassa-
deur electrique.

Among the countless visitors some were so fervent in their adora-
tion that the gardens began to suffer. No one wanted to leave the
island without a souvenir. The flowers around the grave were plun-
dered, the poplars robbed of their lower branches; a fragment was
even broken off the altar itself. The Marquis gave orders that visitors
must be accompanied by one of his gardeners and that anyone want-
ing to cross to the island must obtain written permission. An English-
man who failed to get permission swam across the lake fully clothed
in order at least to have touched the island where the dead man
rested.

Eugenie Maillart, the young and radiantly lovely actress whose en-
chanting gaiety was winning her such great successes at the Theatre
fran^ais, was completely carried away as she stood by the grave.
Her happy face clouded; she burst into tears and asked Girardin's
permission to come here often for solace and to gather strength for
her taxing profession. "To give others joy," she said, "you have to
suffer and wear yourself out." She also asked Monsieur Girardin
whether she might erect a similar gravestone on her estate in Nor-
mandy, Roche Saint-Quentin.

Two young people, the Abbe Gabriel Brizard and Jean-Baptiste
de Cloots, Baron of Val-de-Grace, wandered rapturously for days in
the gardens, reading Jean-Jacques's works and reciting from them.

178

Impressed by their devotion, Girardin offered to row the pair over
to the island himself. Emboldened by so much kindness, they asked
if they might offer up at the grave a sacrifice of love and hate,
explaining that they wished to burn there the lampoon which the
abominable traitor Diderot had written on his dead friend, the 'Essay
on Seneca/ The Marquis agreed.

Early next morning the two young pilgrims, the Marquis, and
Monsieur Gerber rowed over to the island. The Abbe and the Baron
kissed the altar repeatedly, prayed silently, and strewed flowers over
the grave. They kneeled. While one of them struck fire with flint
the other tore the pages concerning Jean- Jacques out of Diderot's
book. The flames leapt up, and now the Baron threw what was left
of the book into the fire. Black smoke traveled up the sides of the
memorial. "So may all memory of malice and slander go up in
smoke!" they cried with passionate indignation.

Soon after this a visitor of higher rank than any of the previous
guests came to Ermenonville. He called himself quite simply Count
Falkenstein, but this count as everyone knew, was the Queen's eldest
brother, the Holy Roman Emperor Joseph the Second.

Girardin regarded Joseph as the most progressive monarch who
had walked the earth since Marcus Aurelius; he sincerely admired
him and received him with profound emotion.

The Emperor's manner did not belie his reputation. He conversed
with Girardin as with an equal, listened with interest when Girardin
quoted some of Jean-Jacques's sayings, exchanged views about the
Social Contract and, though a royalist by profession, proved to be
even more progressive than Girardin.

After lunch the Emperor asked his host with disarming candor to
permit him to take his projected walk alone, for he wished to enjoy
Jean-Jacques's solitude. Girardin pointed anxiously to the threaten-
ing thunderclouds, but Count Falkenstein observed that he was used
to all kinds of weather when climbing in his Alps, and he insisted on
going. After about an hour, sure enough, there was a cloudburst
Girardin was torn by doubts as to whether he should send assistance
to his illustrious guest. He gave orders, then countermanded them.
An hour later Count Falkenstein reappeared, soaking wet and smil-
ing. He said that at the height of the downpour he had taken shelter
in a grotto. He borrowed some clothes from the Marquis, and they
parted greatly pleased with one another.

179

Henceforth the Marquis called the little cave 'Joseph's Grotto'
and placed in it this inscription,

Wanderer, stay thy steps and see
Lo, this grotto small but free,
Vouchsafed farne when in its lee
Crowned worth found sanctuary.

Chapter 2 The Village and the
Social Contract

A DROP OF bitterness was mixed with Monsieur de Girardin's pleasure
over Joseph's visit. Joseph had declined to spend the night in the
chateau and had had the camp bed which he took with him on his
travels set up at Goodman Maurice's inn.

The Emperor liked the simple house; part of its roof was thatched
with straw, which reminded him of the cottage of Philemon and
Baucis. Goodman Maurice, for his part, was torn this way and that
by conflicting emotions. It was a tremendous honor that the Holy
Roman Emperor should deign to sleep beneath his roof, but Jean-
Jacques's philosophy had filled him with a citizen's pride and he was
unwilling to attend Joseph more zealously than any other guest. Yet
when the Emperor stroked his little daughter's cheek and benevo-
lently asked her name, Maurice could no longer contain himself.
"What an honor! What an honor!' 7 he stammered "How pleased our
lamented Jean-Jacques would have been by such affability!"

After dinner Joseph questioned him about his experiences with
Jean-Jacques, and when the innkeeper told him he had read all the
Master's works seven times, he asked his opinion of the Social Con-
tract. The Emperor listened attentively and from time to time made
such remarks as, "An interesting point, my good man," or, "That's
not bad at all."

180

If the Marquis boasted an inscription in his grotto, Goodman
Maurice was not going to be outdone. He asked Monsieur Milliet,
the poet of Senlis, for an appropriate poem. Monsieur Milliet obliged,
and a plaque was set into the wall of the inn with verses commemo-
rating Joseph's visit. They began:

Thou who to the palace a simple hut
Preferredst, sublime prince and philosopher.

And ended:

O lord and father of the blessed Germans.

And soon the inhabitants of Ermenonville knew these verses by
heart.

The conspicuous plaque displeased the Marquis. In fact Goodman
Maurice was a constant source of annoyance to him. The inn had
been called The Chestnuts from time immemorial, but now a
painted sign in bright colors, depicting Jean-Jacques taking a walk,
identified the place as the Auberge Jean- Jacques. Prompted by Good-
man Maurice, the villagers would tell strangers how fond Jean-
Jacques had been of sitting in the garden of this inn. Many of the
pilgrims visited the now historic spot, and the visitors' book which
the self-important innkeeper installed soon contained many of the
great names of the land.

It was Maurice's habit to sit and talk with his guests. He would
regale them with sayings he attributed to Jean-Jacques and with
amusing, sentimental little anecdotes. He would also maliciously
whisper dark hints about his great friend's death. The guests listened,
suitably horrified and touched, and they fed the ducks and fishes
which Jean-Jacques had fed. The Prince de Ligne gave Goodman
Maurice money so that he would not serve up these creatures to
his guests but let them die a natural death.

Maurice's whispering campaign was as unwelcome to Madame
Levasseur as it was to the Marquis. And with her usual energy she
set about putting a stop to his troublemaking. She went to the inn.

Black and dignified in her mourning dress, she sat, spangled by
light and shadow, under the chestnut trees of the little garden. She
ate an omelette, drank the yellow wine, and fed the fishes. Goodman
Maurice hovered around her uncertainly. "Come here, monsieur," she
commanded. "Come and sit with me. I hear you're doing quite good
business thanks to my son-in-law's passing away." "I think in my

181

modest way I can claim to have been his friend," Maurice answered.
"People know that and set store by it, and that is why they come to
me/' As Madame Levasseur was silent, he went on challengingly,
"My friend Jean-Jacques's abrupt end shook me to the core. Just
after he had been chatting with me and seemed so hale and hearty."
"An abrupt end, you say/' Madame Levasseur countered. She con-
tinued to feed the fishes, but the down on her upper lip quivered
with her panting breath, "An abrupt end, and maybe some people
say a suspiciously abrupt end. The people of Ermenonville say all
sorts of things, once they start talking. Maybe you'll live to hear
people whispering that you were mixed up in this abrupt end, since
it has turned out so much to your advantage."

Maurice stared at her in amazement, "But everyone knows " he
began indignantly. "And everyone also knows/* Madame Levasseur
interrupted him, "how hard hit my daughter and I were by this ter-
rible blow to our hearts as well as our purse, and yet there's more
than one tongue wagging about us two defenseless widows/*

Maurice sweated and said nothing. Madame Levasseur shifted her
bulk closer to him and spoke persuasively. "You ought to help us,
monsieur. You could, you know. A lot of people come here to sit
under your fine chestnut trees and talk; a good innkeeper hears more
than the police. Why don't you find out who is responsible for this
idle gossip and then tip me off. I'd like to set the seigneur's bailiff
onto these cursed blabbermouths. You owe us that much, Goodman
Maurice; you were my dear son-in-law's friend. And my Therese
has long been thinking of bestowing some little memento upon you
out of his effects/' Her hard little eyes were fixed on him, earnest,
sad, expectant.

"You are very kind, madame," said Maurice. "But now that we're
talking as one person to another like this," he went on, gathering his
courage, Td like to speak frankly to you. After all, there was some-
thing fishy about the demise of our lamented philosopher. You must
admit it yourself, madame." "Maybe so, maybe not/' Madame Le-
vasseur conceded. "My son-in-law was always complaining about his
philosophical enemies as you know, and I had my ideas about his
sudden demise myself. But after all, no one was there, and the legal
gentlemen have decided that it was a natural death, an apoplexy of
the brain, and her Majesty the Queen has confirmed this in person,
so to speak, by the gracious visit of condolence she was pleased to pay
my daughter and me. And when the Law and the Queen have

182

spoken, a Goodman Maurice and a Madame Levasseur will probably
do better to keep their mouths shut,"

She broke off. "I must go home," she said. "How much do I owe
you, monsieur?" "Nothing, madame," Goodman Maurice replied. "It
was an honor. And if you really meant what you said about the little
memento, then I shall give myself the pleasure of paying you and
your daughter my humble respects. I've always wanted to see the
chalet to which the unfortunate deceased so much looked forward."

Within two days Maurice presented himself at the Swiss cMlet
There was a subdued, solemn, and yet pleasant conversation about
Jean- Jacques. To think he couldn't live to see this house/' Goodman
Maurice lamented for the tenth time.

When he left he took with him the dead man's dressing gown,
snuffbox, walking stick, and his worn-out sheepskin-lined straw
slippers.

Henceforth Maurice showed certain favored guests these souve-
nirs of his friend and master. With pounding hearts and reverent
fingers they handled the relics, and even wished to purchase one or
the other of them. But Goodman Maurice refused to be tempted
though the sums offered were high. He would not be like Villette,
the husband of Voltaire's adopted daughter, who had sold to an Eng-
lish collector the most generous heart that had ever beaten in France,
the heart of the dead Voltaire, together with the burial urn, for three
hundred louis d'or.

But when Goodman Maurice saw how disappointed the pilgrims
were he asked himself whether he was justified in offending Jean-
Jacques's admirers. He had similar snuffboxes and slippers made and
sold them, well satisfied to have the genuine relics remain in his
own faithful hands.

While the innkeeper now spared the women, he intensified his
malicious persecution of the Marquis, and all Ermenonville repeated
his stories.

For the Marquis de Girardin was not popular with his peasants.
It was true that their enlightened seigneur had remitted many of
their taxes, corvees, and imposts, but then again in small ways he
was self-willed and unjust, even tyrannical. And now that Jean-
Jacques was no longer there, the Pere la Tapette in him came
increasingly to the fore. This embittered his peasants. Furthermore,
though he treated his mainmortables well, he did not free these

183

serfs, and this fact was resented by his tenants and free peasants as
well as by the serfs themselves.

What caused Girardin to cling to his privileges was not greed but
a patriarchal sense of duty. Without his strong paternal guidance
these stupid, half-animal creatures would surely perpetrate the worst
possible crimes against themselves. It made him bitter that he was
unable to exact from these stubborn people the respect and affection
which was his due, and that the silly, spiteful talk about his respon-
sibility for Jean-Jacques's death persisted.

Now one of his serfs, the farmhand Trouelle, had asked permission
to give his daughter Pauline in marriage to a free peasant. As it
happened, the young man did not even live on one of Girardin's
own estates but on land belonging to his hated neighbor, the Prince
de Conde. Girardin hesitated for a long time. Finally he conquered
his own feelings. He would see what sheer kindness could do. He
decided not only to allow Pauline Trouelle's marriage, but to free his
serfs once and for all.

He summoned a delegation of peasants to the chateau to anounce
to them his magnanimous decision.

When they were assembled in his great hall he began by telling
them that, not without misgivings, he was prepared to consent to
Pauline Trouelle's marriage with her Jos&phe Carteret Then he took
a deep breath before embarking on the great speech which he had
prepared.

Whereupon the peasant Michel Desportes awkwardly stepped
forward from the group, scuffing the shining parquet floor with
his clumsy sabots, and opened his mouth. The seigneur, he began,
had often been kindhearted to the poor and lowly and, after all,
he had taken in Monsieur Jean-Jacques, the friend of all mankind.
And, after all, many other lords, chief of all their Most Christian
King himself, had set their serfs free and made them like other
people and given up that part of their privileges. Of all their High
and Mighty Seigneur's rights these were the ones that rankled most.
So what about it? Wouldn't Monseigneur, too, feel kindly and say;
Away with all that?

Girardin had taken a step back. It vexed him to have to yield
under pressure what he had intended to give out of the generosity of
his heart. He made no reply.

And then the old peasant Antoine Monnier, whom everyone called
Grandfather Antoine, began to speak. Ever since Monsieur Jean-

184

Jacques had been among them, he began in his quavering old voice,
they would sometimes sit together and one of them who knew how
to read Schoolmaster Harlet or Goodman Maurice would
read aloud from Jean- Jacques's works and explain it all to them. Nor
would they have ever had the courage respectfully to put it up to
their seigneur if it didn't say in Jean- Jacques's books and here he
quoted the way he probably quoted die Bible *What matters is to
define the respective rights of ruler and ruled and draw the boundary
where the duties of the ruled end and their natural human rights
begin/

Now Girardin became incensed. First his son had defiantly misin-
terpreted Jean-Jacques's teachings, and now his peasants had the
temerity to quote Jean- Jacques and give him advice. This came of
pampering them. But he would put them in their place. 'Quos ego!"
he thought to himself. But then it occurred to him how Monsieur
Robinet and Cousin Vaudreuil would make fun of him if he angrily
rebuffed his peasants' attempt at philosophy, and he controlled
himself.

"I do not think, my friends," he lectured the delegates with a
somewhat wry smile "I do not think Goodman Maurices inter-
pretation is quite what our Jean-Jacques meant You see, his book
on the social contract is based on the idea that the individual parts
of the state should co-operate with each other like the organs of the
human body. Here our Jean- Jacques had in mind an episode from
Roman history. The Romans were a great and virtuous people of
antiquity. The Third Estate revolted, and a member of the First
Estate, a certain Menenius Agrippa, drew the rebels 7 attention to the
functions of the respective organs. One estate must be the brain,
another the belly. Now, surely you're not trying to tell me you repre-
sent the brain?" He disliked having to dispute with the rabble, and
he was unable to keep a note of scorn out of his voice.

Again it was Michel Desportes who answered. "No," he said with
blunt good humor. "We're the belly, and we know it. If only the
belly had a little more in it" And they all laughed.

The Marquis did not laugh. Their laughter had a disagreeable
ring: there was a spiteful, dangerous sound to it. And all of a sudden
he saw his peasants' faces as they really were. If they seemed stupid
faces, a large part of this stupidity was assumed, and behind it was
hostility, cunning, and danger.

"No offense meant, Monseigneur," said Grandfather Antoine pla-

185

catingly. "I daresay we're putting ourselves forward, and we haven't
much philosophy, only what we think out for ourselves. But" and
here his old voice quavered "as we clodhoppers say: our own dung
smells sweeter than our neighbor's roses."

Girardin was by now quite determined not to have wrested from
him the very thing he had been ready to grant of his own accord.
They parted in bad humor.

For days Girardin raged inwardly. They behaved, these peasants
of his, as if Jean-Jacques had been their guest, not his. After all, the
Social Contract had not been written for clodhoppers but for those
who were entrusted with the general welfare.

There was one person whom the Marquis suspected of the most
vicious misinterpretations of Jean- Jacques's doctrines. That was Mar-
tin Catrou. He had never really cared for the sly young fellow with
the impudent face and darting eyes, and he had been displeased
at Fernand's choosing him to be his particular friend.

Martin himself had been impressed by the way Fernand had
pulled himself together and gone to join the lovers of freedom across
the sea. Obviously Fernand had been directly influenced by Jean-
Jacques, and that fact gave Martin considerable food for thought. By
nature thorough, he now immersed himself more deeply than ever
in Jean- Jacques's books.

Much in them still struck him as wild and eccentric, but he kept
finding ideas that were new, remarkable, and revolutionary. It was
incredible that these aristocrats should have stood for this man's
presence among them that they should even have revered him.
For to Martin himself the books only provided new reasons for being
hostile and mistrustful toward the gentry. Jean- Jacques taught that
all good things came from below, from the Third Estate, the people,
whereas the bigwigs had to be forced to submit to the General Will.

Martin chafed more and more at the narrowness of Ermenonville.
He went to Schoolmaster Harlet and kept after him until the school-
master approached the Marquis and urged him to find a clerical job
in town, preferably in Paris, for the intelligent youth. Since the
sight of Martin reminded the Marquis painfully of Fernand, he
would ordinarily have been glad to get him out of the way. But the
recent delegation gave him pause. Had not his peasants just demon-
strated how easily the lower orders could have their heads turned
by philosophy? And young Catrou was by nature too forward. For
the present the Marquis refused to say either yes or no.

186

A minor incident helped him to make up his mind. Among the
prerogatives he especially insisted on were the ancient fishing rights
on his estates. He allowed his people to fish his waters, but reserved
the right to buy a part of their catch for his own kitchen. Now he
learned that Widow Catrou had been selling fish in her shop without
showing them to his staff first. Her lies and excuses merely aggra-
vated the Marquis's anger, and since the lease of her shop had
expired he rented it to another applicant. The woman and her son
already had a hard life, and this action made it even harder. The
villagers grumbled and muttered,

Girardin was unhappy. He had wanted to abolish serfdom and his
stupid peasants had compelled him to retain it. And now this un-
reasonable widow forced him to take her shop away from her. He
was the kindest master in the world, but appearances were against
him and his peasants were complaining. The chief reason for this
was that they were busying themselves with Jean- Jacques and con-
stantly misunderstanding the perfectly clear words of this wisest of
men.

It was against his principles to revoke an action once taken. Yet
he was sorry to have had to punish Widow Catrou so harshly. With
quick resolution he had a word with Maitre Bouvier, his Paris law-
yer, and the lawyer agreed to take Martin into his office.

So Martin Catrou and his mother moved to Paris.

Chapter 3 Exit Madame Levasseur

THEKESE FREQUENTLY visited her husband's grave. She was afraid
the dead man might be angry with her because, before Nature, she
had married his murderer. She begged Jean-Jacques to forgive her
and tried to persuade him that it was not meant unkindly, nor
directed against him personally.

Sitting under the willow tree on the anniversary of his death,
vacantly gazing across the lake to the grave, she saw Girardin ap-
proach and, at the sight of her, turn round and retrace his steps.

187

It was scandalous, the way the Marquis treated her. At least on
the anniversary of Jean- Jacques's death he might have treated the
widow with greater courtesy. "If we were good enough for the
Queen/* she later told her mother indignantly, "then there's no call
for him to turn up his thin nose. Let's clear out and leave him alone
in that dull coop of his."

Madame Levasseur sighed at hearing her daughter talk her usual
rubbish. "Of course the Marquis is trying to get rid of us," she never
tired of explaining. "But Widow Rousseau's place is in Ermenonville
by her husband's grave, and that's that. Once you stop being the
mourning widow," she would keep hammering into Th&rese, "you're
no better than dirt. And not a sou, not a penny will you get from the
King of England or the Lord Mareschal. The grave is your manger,
you cow."

The sulky mood she now was in after the Marquis's insulting be-
havior was rare with Therese. As a rule she was quiet and lax and
seemed content with life in the lonely ch&let To her satisfaction
Madame Levasseur observed that Therese was not fooling around
with men.

Yet she could Lave had men easily enough. Widow Rousseau was
an interesting personality; many men showed themselves eager
to dally with her, and she too sometimes felt like tumbling in the
hay. But she fought the feeling down. She was waiting for her Colas.

Twice during these years he sent secret messages to her, assured
her that he would certainly return, commanded her to wait and not
get into mischief.

She obeyed.

As a respectable and well-conducted woman she felt she was
above reproach, even from her dead Jean-Jacques. Of course his
sudden death was not her fault at all, yet Jean-Jacques might hold
it against her, since Monsieur Nicolas had done it for her sake.

It certainly could do no harm for her to try to placate him. She did
more than pay him frequent visits: she carefully tended his canaries,
changing the water in their little cups and daily plucking for them
that little reddish plant called mouron, their favorite food.

Months passed and lengthened into years, and Madame Levasseur
felt that her end was approaching.

She summoned up all her strength and drove to Senlis to see
Mattre Gibert and make her final dispositions. The lawyer was a
vulture, but he knew his business. She frankly explained to him her

188

fears and her intentions. Even from the grave she wanted to take
care of her son and daughter; though already well on in years, both
of them needed supervision. Would the lawyer draw up a will, she
asked, providing for Fran9ois twenty louis each year, and no more?
Most important of all, would Maitre Gibert do everything he could,
both by legal measures and by personal admonition and persuasion,
to prevent Therese from marrying again? Widow Rousseau she must
remain, living by and dependent upon Widow Rousseau's annuities.
The lawyer was to see to this with all the means at his command,
and he was to pledge himself to do so by solemn oath in the name of
God and St. Yves, the patron saint of lawyers. For this Madame
Levasseur was willing to pay a decent fee.

The panting, corpulent, sick old woman's firm words and indomit-
able will impressed Maitre Gibert. He thought her proposals full of
maternal good sense, and furthermore he had a high opinion of Jean-
Jacques's books. Of course there was no such thing as a legal instru-
ment which could keep the widow tethered to her stake. All the
same he was determined to do his best, for a fee of five louis per year.

Back in Ermenonville, Madame Levasseur lay down to die.

Sergeant Frangois came, and wept without restraint when he saw
his mother. "You are provided for, my good, brave boy," she com-
forted him. "You are to get an annual allowace. And when I'm out
of purgatory, which I hope will be soon, I shall go round to all the
saints and give them no peace till they help you put your good ideas
to work."

She was already having difficulty in talking when she had her final
conversation with Therese. She impressed upon her that she was not
to go to Paris, no matter what rosy prospects Francois might appear
to have. And she was not to marry, under any circumstances, not
even if that fellow of hers came back the filthy dog. For the last
time she explained to Therese, "You have money only so long as you
remain the Widow Rousseau. And when he sees you have no money
left, your life won't be very pleasant, my child, and maybe not very
long. Stay by the grave," she commanded her. "Stay the Widow
Rousseau." Then the death agony began.

Sergeant Frangois himself reported his mother's passing to the
Marquis. He suggested that the old woman be buried beside Jean-
Jacques, whom she had tended so faithfully. "For God's sake, not
that!" the Marquis burst out

The Sergeant was outraged by this aristocratic haughtiness. De-

189

termined to do the thing in style, he ordered a first-class funeral for
his mother. All the clergymen in Dammartin took part. Goodman
Maurice insisted on speaking the eulogy for Jean-Jacques's mother-
in-law. He lamented her tragic fate. Jean-Jacques's enemies, he said,
had defamed the loyal old woman who had worn herself out caring
for him, and they had tried to bring about a breach between them.
The people of Ermenonville were moved. The Marquis, who attend-
ed the funeral, listened impassively.

In the Swiss chAlet brother and sister talked things over. Frangois
told Therese he wanted to take her to Paris with him. She replied
that their mother had ordered her to remain by Jean-Jacques's
grave. Frangois maintained that the law entitled him to decide
where she was to live since he was now head of the family. Still
with the same quiet obstinacy, Therese replied that she would stay,
no matter what the law said. If she did, Frangois pointed out, he
would have to keep her very short of money; there was no doubt
that they inherited together and that as head of the family he had
the right to administer the estate. As to that, Therese replied calmly,
Maitre Gibert would inform them. Frangois realized that he could
not get the better of her. He was offended. "We shall live to see the
day," he told her gloomily, "when you will come to me in Paris,
ragged and dirty and begging me for help. I shall not refuse you a
plate of soup and a roof over your head, for I am a soldier and a
generous man. But I shall never quite be able to forgive you your
lack of faith in me. And now give me two ecus for the return jour-
ney." With that he left.

She stayed on in Ermenonville. It was fitting and her duty that
she should do so. She was convinced that Nicolas was going to come
for her there.

Not that she felt comfortable in the Swiss ch&let. It was haunted
by ghosts by Jean-Jacques's spirit and her mother's. Neither of
them was pleased with her for intending to live with Nicolas; her
mother in particular scolded and threatened. Again and again The-
rese showed her the ring which Nicolas had given her. Was she not
wedded to him by virtue of that ring? But her mother refused to be
satisfied.

Again the stranger who had come before brought a message for
her. Monsieur Nicolas would soon be returning. She should stay where
she was and wait And not get into mischief. Those were his strict
orders.

190

Therese was happy. Sometimes she dressed herself with care, so
that her beloved would not surprise her in an imkempt condition.
Then she would sit by the hour in her best clothes, staring at the ring
with a dreamy, vacant smile.

Chapter 4 Gilberte at Versailles*

THE GENTLEMEN in Geneva were not willing to delay the publication
of the Confessions any longer. In spite of his fears that publication
would provoke more ugly attacks on Jean-Jacques, Girardin was
obliged to yield to their decision.

The Confessions were published.

The effect of the book was quite different from what Girardin had
anticipated. Readers were stirred by the uncompromising way in
which Jean-Jacques laid bare his life and soul. They admired his
fanatical zeal for the truth. In the Confessions they found revealed
the deep source of many emotions and thoughts which had hitherto
baffled them, The man who here portrayed himself combined the
noblest heart with a personality which was touchy to the point of
madness. The former quality aroused love and respect; the latter,
compassion. From now on, they felt, it was permissible to voice
thoughts which they had not dared to utter even to themselves, to
express attitudes they had scarcely acknowledged even to them-
selves. The Confessions exalted Jean-Jacques's fame to the skies.

Gilberte de Latour was in Paris when the book appeared. Monsieur
Robinet brought her a copy. That evening she was to have attended
a ball at the Marquise de Saint-diamond's. She made her excuses,
retired immediately after dinner, and read.

She lay in bed, and the candlelight played over the words that
revealed the life of this man Jean-Jacques.

She read quickly and avidly. But from time to time she lowered
the book and closed her eyes. Then she could hear Fernand speaking
about the selfsame characters. To her inner ear, his voice was clearly

191

audible and his words and the printed words merged together.

She found each page of the Confessions more distasteful than the
last. Her first impression of Jean-Jacques in the hall at Ermenonville
had been right. Here he was proclaiming for everyone who cared to
listen that he was a poor wretch, obscene and ridiculous; a miser-
able, unhealthy, unappetizing creature.

And this was the man before whom people went down on their
knees! Were they blind? The 'Man of Truth,' they called him.
Couldn't they see that every word was false? The individual page
sounded convincing enough in itself, but the very next page would
state the opposite. This Jean- Jacques was simply unable to speak the
truth. Events lost their reality for him even while they were happen-
ing. He was driven hither and thither by his emotions; everything
fluttered and Simmered. Were such flutterings, such lack of focus,
to be called philosophy? If so she wanted no part of it. It was
plain humbug.

She closed the book, blew out the candles, tried to sleep. The song
The Lover Who Gave Me Joy Has Sailed for a Foreign Land* went
round in her head.

There she was, thinking about Fernand again. And moreover in the
words of that silly song of Jean- Jacques's. A hundred times she had
commanded herself to stop thinking about him. She was through with
Fernand. He had sold himself heart and soul to the false prophet,
was throwing away his life on a crazy scheme. She was not going to
throw away hers as well. It was finished.

Of course it was not finished how could she fool herself? On
the long journey with her grandfather through Switzerland and Italy
she had asked herself at every lake and mountain, at every town,
what Fernand would say to it. And why was she suddenly so in-
terested in the New World? Why was she reading so many books
about America?

It was cruel of Fernand to send absolutely no news. To his father,
at least, he might have written more frequently. At every meeting
with Monsieur de Girardin, Grandfather always inquired politely
after Fernand. But the Marquis had little to report his son was
chary with news. When the French auxiliary force under General
Rochambeau arrived in America, they had all hoped Fernand would
be transferred to this army. But the obstinate boy had stayed with
General Washington's troops. His father's pleas evidently fell upon
deaf ears.

192

She should have gone to the Marquise de Saint-Chamond's ball
after all. She usually had a wonderful time at balls. And was there
anything wrong in that? Fernand thought that a girl who liked
balls was an empty creature, but why should she not enjoy the com-
pany of clever, cultured, elegant people?

Mathieu was sure to be at the ball, was sure to miss her. She ought
to be nicer to him, and not keep him in this suspense. A full year
had passed since his father had died and Mathieu had inherited
the numerous titles and dignities, the two tumble-down castles and
the debts. He could solve all his troubles by taking one of the impor-
tant posts in the army or the diplomatic service which were open to
him as the Haut et Puissant Messire Mathieu-Marie Comte de Cour-
celles. If he had not accepted one of these posts it was for her sake.
As a general he could be sent off to some provincial city; as ambas-
sador to some foreign court. But he wanted to stay in Versailles
where he was close to her. He did not speak or make an offer, for
he was as proud as Lucifer. But she knew he needed only a sign
from her and he would speak.

How much longer should she keep him dangling? If he was wooing
her it was certainly not to mend his fortunes with her money. She
knew from Monsieur Robinet that he had turned away from other
wealthy heiresses.

Yet he would have to wait a while longer. The armistice with Eng-
land had been concluded. Now there was nothing to keep Fernand
in America. Not that his return could change anything. But he was
entitled to one last talk.

When Monsieur de Girardin next visited Chateau Latour he told
them that his son was not returning with the French army as had
been expected. Fernand had gone to the West Indies instead, to
Saint Domingue, where he planned to settle. Perhaps the Marquis
had not meant to spring the news, but his heart was too full. Gilberte
pressed her lips together and said nothing.

That night she imagined for the tenth time what life with Mathieu
would be like. No doubt he would wish to pursue his career. How-
ever, she was by no means willing to live in the provinces or abroad.
She might consent to spend a few months of the year in Paris and in
Versailles she would even put up with the strict ceremonial of
court life during those months, as Mathieu would certainly want her
to do. But she would like to spend the greater part of the year in the
country, at Saint-Vigor or Latour or one of the dilapidated castles.

193

She would have to make her wishes in these matters quite clear to
him.

She wrinkled her brow. She would not have needed to make that
sort of thing clear to Fernand.

Next day she spoke to Monsieur Robinet. She had kept Mathieu
de Courcelles waiting for years. Most of her friends were already
married. She thought she loved Monsieur de Courcelles. Did her
grandfather advise her to marry him?

Robinet had difficulty keeping a calm expression on his square red
face. Here it was again the same old quandary as when Gilberte
had told him of Fernandas plan to go to America. He had no objec-
tion to a marriage between Gilberte and Mathieu, but he was even
less able than before to imagine how he could live without her.

In his customary tone of gentle irony he observed, "It is not easy
for me to give such advice, my child. I should be very sorry to
lose you. You see, I have a certain stake in the matter/'

"But Grandfather/* she replied impulsively, "it's out of the ques-
tion that I should live away from you. Of course we would live with
you, or you with us/' Robinet smiled to himself. For all their well-
bred friendliness he and the ultra-aristocrat Mathieu were not exactly
congenial. "I scarcely imagine that Count Courcelles will appreciate
living under the same roof with me," Robinet answered, That's some-
thing else I shall have to make clear to Mathieu,' Gilberte told herself.

Aloud she said,. "If you really have no objections, Grandfather,
then your great-grandson will be called Monsieur de Courcelles." On
her face there was that tiny hard smile which Monsieur Robinet had
observed at Jean-Jacques's funeral.

Monsieur Robinet hesitated a moment. Then he said, "In that case
your son will also be called De Saint- Vigor, my child. Saint- Vigor
once belonged to the Courcelles, and if it reverts to a De Courcelles
the title reverts with it." Gilberte reddened with mixed pleasure and
embarrassment. Saint- Vigor was a domain with several villages; Mon-
sieur Robinet's wedding present was a costly one. "Thank you,
Grandfather," she said.

When Gilberte next met Mathieu she took occasion to ask, "What
do you think of my grandfather?" Rather cautiously he replied,
"Monsieur Robinet is a very clever and successful man of business,
as all France knows/' "I love my grandfather," Gilberte declared
warmly and with unusual emphasis. "I would never leave him. Under
no circumstances. Do you understand, Count Courcelles?" Mathieu

194

seemed surprised, then thoughtful, then a little sad. TL understand,**
he answered with a low bow.

She proceeded: "Furthermore I should expect my husband, who-
ever he may be, to spend at least half the year in the country. Is
that asking too much, Count Courcelles?" "It is asking a great deal,"
Mathieu answered, but when he saw her face he quickly added, <c but
not too much." "Would you, for example, agree to such an arrange-
ment?" Gilberte asked. Mathieu again considered for a while, then
said gravely and resolutely, "I would/' "Thank you," said Gilberte.

Mathieu hardly dared to realize the implications of this talk. He
looked at her almost stupidly, scanned her good, brave face, so fresh
and wholesome, which was now overlaid with a smile of shyness.
Then he came to life as Gilberte would never have thought possible.
He seized her, kissed her. He knew how to kiss. She trembled.

Was she happy? She was happy. This time she had chosen, of her
own free will, not without reason, yet not without heart either.

An interview took place between Monsieur Robinet and Count
Courcelles to arrange Gilberte's financial settlement. It was a lengthy,
embarrassing interview. Mathieu was reluctant to accept the sums
which Monsieur Robinet considered necessary to ensure a carefree
future for the couple. Robinet told his granddaughter with a sigh,
"He is an aristocrat of the best type, your Mathieu* Very decent and
properly limited."

As Mathieu belonged to the noblesse de parage and could show
thirty-six quarterings while Gilberte, as a member of the noblesse
bdtarde, could only show one, their marriage had to be endorsed by
the royal family and cabinet ministers if the children were to retain
the privileges of the father. Numerous memoranda and petitions had
to be presented before the young people were allowed to appear in,
Versailles to obtain the necessary signatures.

In the weeks taken up by these matters Gilberte often remem-
bered how Fernand had made fun of these formalities, particularly
the long and complicated pilgrimage through the Palace of Versailles
in which the ceremony culminated. Fernand lived with his head in
the clouds and was bitterly mistaken. Gilberte's presentation to
the King and the Court would not be a ridiculous farce. It would be
a triumph. By this one gesture she would be raised from the crowd
of the lowly, burdened with duties and obligations, into the ranks of
the free, the privileged, she and her children, forever. She was not
going to have this day spoiled by any man's mockery, whether from

195

far or near. She was looking forward to the eighteenth day of March,
which was to be her great day.

Monsieur de Segur, the Minister of War and a relative of Mathieu's,
had undertaken to submit their marriage contract to the King for
signature. Two terribly tedious hours were spent in the anteroom
among countless people attending the lever. At last the portly Swiss
guard struck the floor with his halberd and called out, "Le contratr
And now the moment had come: Mathieu, Gilberte, and Monsieur
Robinet, escorted by Monsieur de Segur, were allowed to enter His
Most Christian Majesty's bedchamber.

Gilberte threw a rapid glance at Mathieu. He looked handsome
and distinguished and certainly saw nothing absurd in the many
ceremonies he must go through.

The King was sprawling lazily at his dressing table while his hair
was dressed and powdered. The magnificent room was full of
people. Monsieur de Segur, leading Gilberte by the tips of her fingers,
brought her before the King. Mathieu and Monsieur Robinet fol-
lowed. "Sire," said the Minister, "this is Mademoiselle de Latour, the
future Countess de Courcelles, if it pleases Your Majesty to append
your signature to the marriage contract." The King examined Gil-
berte idly with sleep-puffed eyes. <f So you are Mademoiselle de
Latour," he said. "Very well, then." The Minister of War passed him
the contract, and a lord-in-waiting handed him the quill. Gilberte,
emerging from a deep curtsey, greedily watched the plump white
tand as it wrote. *a y est* she thought to herself. She was conscious
of nothing but joy uncontrollable joy.

Louis had signed, "Very well, then," he said, barely stifling a
yawn. "So now you are Countess Courcelles. My congratulations."

They proceeded to the apartments of the Queen. Marie Antoinette
scrutinized the bride's gala attire with an expert eye and saw at once
that it came from the hands of Mademoiselle Bertin, her own modiste.
"That must have cost a pretty penny, my dear," she observed with a
smile, and signed.

Through countless rooms, up countless stairs, and along endless cor-
ridors, past Swiss guards, past lords-in-waiting and dignitaries spiri-
tual and temporal, they made their way to the apartments of the
King's brothers, the Count of Provence and the Count of Artois.
Then to Mesdames, the King's three aunts. And then to the Duke of
Angouleme. This prince was seated on a rocking-horse, shouldering
his saber. He was four years old. He wrote his signature slowly,

196

painstakingly, and Monsieur Robinet observed, "He s the only one in
the entire Royal Family who writes a legible fist"

This done, the solemn small procession betook itself to the Minister
of Justice and Keeper of the Great Seal, Monsieur de Miromesnfl.
He affixed the King's Seal to the document and added his own sig-
nature.

It had now been settled legally and for all time that Count
Mathieu de CourceUes was entitled to marry Mademoiselle de
Latour, possessor of only one quartering, without forfeiting his titles,
dignities, and privileges. And upon marriage Gilberte de Latour
became the possessor of three quarterings while her first-born son
would come into the dignities and titles of his father.

Chapter 5 The Suitor's Return

IN THE DEAD of night a loud knocking startled Therese out of her
sleep. She sat bolt upright and knew, with a thrill of joy, that it
was he.

And he it was. He stood there grinning. "Here we are again, my
sweet," he squeaked, as if he had been away no more than a day.
Radiant, she feasted her eyes on him. He had put on a little weight,
but he was still lean, and his eyes still twinkled merrily above his
pug nose.

He submitted to her embraces and patted her graciously on the
behind. She was aware of his sinewy body, inhaled his masculine
smell, and the years of separation were as if they tad never been.

She ran excitedly to and fro in her bare feet. "Shall I get you
something to eat?* she asked, altogether his good old stupid Therese.
"Later perhaps," he answered. "But I wouldn't say no to something
to drink." Yes, she had something the raspberry cordial Goodman
Maurice had presented her with when she gave him Jean-Jacques's
writing materials.

Nicolas sat in the broad armchair, the departed's favorite seat, and

197

looked at the familiar furniture. "It's nice to be here again/' he ob-
served and settled himself more comfortably, taking possession.

He had had to be cautious about skulking to the chalet. But on
the whole his return had not been particularly risky. Since the treaty
of peace the French and English governments had proclaimed an
amnesty which probably covered his deportation also. It was time,
he had thought, to pay his dear betrothed a visit. The old mare had
given up the ghost; she could no longer kick. The papers she had
guarded so stubbornly now belonged to Therese, which meant to
him. So he had crossed the Channel. The Prince de Conde had hired
him again without hesitation, he was living nearby, and here he was.

It tickled him to sit lounging in his predecessor's chair and talk.
He had heard about the Confessions in London and had read the
English translation. He had laughed loud and long at Monsieur the
Philosopher and his foolish wisdom. What stories he told about this
Therese of theirs! A fat lot he knew! In any case here he sat, John
Bally, also known as Nicolas Montretout, no philosopher but hale and
hearty, and the writer lay in his chilly grave, famous and dead.

Nicolas was keenly aware of the blissful happiness with which
Therese was bustling about him. So his absence had only bound her
more closely to him. He ate and drank and told himself with a
chuckle that he could lick all the seven wise men. The Marquis had
built the chalet for that fool of a philosopher, but the boss in it now
was Nicolas. He sat there graciously submitting to Th6rese's
caresses. "Business later," he told her. "First we want to enjoy each
other," and he took her off to bed.

After which he heard her report. She had no capital, only annuities
paid to her by the Marquis. That struck him as fishy. Why hadn t
she received any cash for the manuscripts? And where did the Mar-
quis come into the picture? "You're of age," he said with a scowl.
"You don't need a guardian, or if you do, you've got me now. How
about it, old girl?" he asked her good-naturedly. "Shall we get mar-
ried? It's true you only have annuities, but I'll take you."

Her heavy heart leaped with joy and fear. She had waited so long
for this moment. She was more than willing to give up her renown
as Widow Rousseau and become plain Madame Montretout, even
though no Queen would come to condole with her then. Since Nicolas
had risked so much for her sake, even his precious young life, it was
only right that she too should make some sacrifice for him. But she
was aware of Jean-Jacques's and her mother's ghosts; they were

198

standing by the bed, shadowy yet real, and her mother was warning
her, If he discovers too late that you no longer have any money, hell
knock you on the head too.'

She raised herself on one elbow. "As far as I'm concerned, the
sooner the better/' she said, and as they were lying in the dark he
could not see that she was smiling the timid and coquettish smile of
a little girl. He waited in the darkness. "But " she went on, moving
fearfully a little away from him "but perhaps you won't want me
any more, Monsieur Nicolas, when you've heard everything there is to
tell." "What is there to tell? What's all this nonsense?" he said with
the old roughness which she so much loved and dreaded. "Strike a
light," he added irritably. When she had obediently done so, he
looked at her, sternly and said to her, "Come on then, talk! I don't
understand." "I don't really understand it either," she replied plain-
tively. "That's just the trouble. My brain's only a poor tiling and you'll
surely be able to understand the whys and wherefores much better
than me. If I marry again I don't get any more money, it seems. But
let's go to Maitre Gibert. He knows all about it/'

"A certain somebody has made another colossal blunder, I can see,"
Nicolas growled. He got up and put on his clothes. "Don't be cross,
Colas," she begged humbly. 'Til do everything you want me to do."

They went to see Maitre Gibert. The notary made no effort to
conceal his mistrust, or his aversion to Nicolas. "Do you really wish
me, madame, to furnish Monsieur Montretout with the details of your
involved finances?" He spoke so officially that Therese was frightened.
Clearly neither Jean- Jacques, nor her late lamented mother, nor the
good Lord Himself approved of what she was doing. But she sum-
moned up all her courage and in a hushed voice said, "Yes, monsieur."

Maitre Gibert remembered the solemn oath that he had given the
fat old woman, and he determined to make the thing as difficult as
possible for this stupid, lewd female. "I need a written declaration
from you," he said, "to release me from my obligation of professional
secrecy." Even that did not deter Therese. She signed the lawyer's
cumbersome statement, and Maitre Gibert had no choice but to
speak.

It appeared that the annuities from the English patrons were paid
through Monsieur de Girardin and that they were contingent upon
their receipt in person by Widow Rousseau. Even the payments for
the rights to Jean-Jacques's works were arranged in the form of an-
nuities entrusted to Monsieur de Girardin for payment

199

The interview was tedious and painful, for Maitre Gibert made
plentiful use of technical terms and Nicolas would not rest till he was
acquainted with the smallest detail. Finally he asked with insolent
bluntness, "And what is the position if Madame Rousseau remarries?"
"I would most strongly advise my client against so doing," answered
Maitre Gibert, looking at Therese severely. "In that event the annui-
ties from the English patrons would certainly cease, and it is also
very doubtful that the publishers would continue their payments."

Now Nicolas's rage burst forth. "Is there no longer any law and
Justice in France?" he retorted. "It is precisely because law and
justice exist in France, my good man," the lawyer loftily informed
him, "that I am advising my client against contracting a fresh mar-
riage. For Madame Rousseau's claim to the inheritance is doubtful
and is being contested by a nephew of the deceased. And here I
must touch on a rather painful matter. By his own account Monsieur
Rousseau married Madame *before Nature/ Whether such a marriage
confers legal rights is questionable, to say the least. Only the support
and prestige of Monsieur de Girardin have prevented the courts
from declaring Madame Rousseau's marriage invalid."

Nicolas remembered certain passages in Jean- Jacques's book and
his ready mind recognized the force of the dead fool's foolish
Confessions.

Th6rese for her part said almost triumphantly, "There you see,
Colas, I told you so/' Nicolas gave her a furious look, thanked the
notary frostily for his information, and they took their leave.

For Nicolas the night was devoted to scheming and reflection. So
even while she rotted in her grave that vile old hag was interfering
with his plans. But perhaps she had miscalculated. If she had found
herself a foxy lawyer, he would find himself a foxier one. He spat
noisily.

Armed with a recommendation from the Prince de Conde, he
went to Paris and called on the Prince's lawyer, Maitre Labouret
The latter had a suggestion to make. Nicolas should get Therese to
appoint him her homme cFaffaires, her homme de conjiance, that
is, she should give him power of attorney. Then he could probably
capitalize on one or the other of the annuities, and he could cer-
tainly raise a loan on them.

Nicolas was rather pleased by the idea. He explained to Therese
that unfortunately Maitre Gibert was right; she must stay in Erme-
nonville, play the respectable Widow Rousseau, and tend Jean-

200

Jacques's grave. So the pretty wedding was out of the window. But
if not her spouse, he could become her homme de confiance, and
that too was an intimate connection. This sounded good to Therese.
So she would be doing nothing to disgrace her dear departed, but
at the same time she could enjoy her Colas, though not publicly.
"Then everything stays as it is/' she summed up.

"Not quite, my beloved," Nicolas told her. "You wouldn't want
your husband - for that is, after all, what I am in spite of that
Maitre Gibert of yours you wouldn't want him to give up his won-
derful Tattersall which can make life so glorious for us both. But for
that I must live in Paris." "Cant I come with you, Colas?" Therese
asked timidly. "It's like talking to the wall," Nicolas growled. Tve
been telling you all this time you've got to stay here." Seeing her
crestfallen expression he said consolingly, "Don't take it so much to
heart, my sweet. Naturally 111 visit you here from time to time and
we'll enjoy our love."

^Later he said, "111 tell you something else. We're going to take a
trip to Paris together soon. Well have the documents drawn up.
It's as good as a marriage youll see how solemn and handsome
it will be/'

Sure enough, next week they went to Paris, though they traveled
separately and with the utmost secrecy. Nor was Therese allowed to
stay in the same lodgings as Nicolas. He put her up with a Madame
Beccari in the Ruelle Louis, a little street tucked away in the parish
of Madeleine.

Next day they went to Maitre Labouret, and numerous documents
were signed and sealed.

It was a complicated and impressive transaction, and Therese
well remembered how she and her mother had had to sign for
Maitre Gibert. This time it was even more awe-inspiring, for Maitre
Labouret was wearing the zimarra an old-fashioned robe which
made him look like a dignitary of the Church. All the feelings
of which she was capable stirred in Therese: she was thankful to God
for having arranged matters so that she was not directly violating
her mother's command and at the same time keeping her Colas; she
was proud of her lover for having managed everything so cunningly
that he was in a way her husband and yet she remained the Widow
Rousseau. But for all her happiness and pride she felt afraid of her
mother, and in the hissing of the candle flame as it softened the
sealing wax she heard that low, toneless, insistent old voice.

201

Then she signed. This time she had many signatures to make, but
she had learned how to do it at the ceremony at Maitre Gibert's,
and many times she dutifully inscribed, *Thr&se Levasseur, Widow
Rousseau,'

Having sent her back to the cMlet, Nicolas threw himself energeti-
cally into his business. He was able to buy some good horses at
favorable prices. The Prince de Conde's recommendation brought
him clients. The times were propitious for his undertaking: there
was a craze in Paris for anything English. The grand gentlemen
liked his expert manner and his combination of boldness and ser-
vility. Matters were shaping up promisingly.

A surprise visitor turned up: Sergeant Frangois Renoux. He
greeted Nicolas with noisy exuberance, embraced him, admired the
stables and riding school. Nicolas regarded him suspiciously. And
before long the Sergeant began to make significant references to
Nicolas's unexpected prosperity, "My little finger tells me," he
observed archly, "there's money of the Levasseur family invested
here, and as the head of the family I think I have a right to know
what sous and 6cus are feeding these wonderful horses."

Nicolas was not minded to let this rascal squeeze anything out of
him, but on the other hand a quarrel with Therese's brother might
have awkward consequences. The proprietor of the Montretout rid-
ing establishment found a way out of the difficulty by giving the
strapping fellow a job. Frangois was lazy; he frequently stayed away
from work on one pretext or another. But he had his uses; his breezy
flow of talk amused the customers. Besides, Nicolas kept him on
short rations.

Nicolas was not stingy, but he had to be carefml. His running ex-
penses were high; his receipts were for the most part on paper. His
best customers, young men from noble houses, took their time about
paying, and if he pressed them for the money, they and their
powerful friends turned nasty.

He saw how dependent he was on Therese's remaining annuities.
So he paid occasional visits to Ermenonville. He usually arrived late
at night, secretly and unannounced, but he always found a Therese
who was waiting for him and whose face lit up gloriously at the
sight of him.

He did his best to keep his visits to Ermenonville a secret. They
became known nevertheless. The bailiff informed Girardin that that

202

fellow Montretout was spending the night from time to time with
the Widow Rousseau in the Swiss chalet

The Marquis thought it no longer advisable to take action openly
against the rogue. On the other hand he now had the longed-for
excuse to get rid of Therese, who was repulsive to him. He wrote her
coldly that he owed it to the memory of his friend Jean- Jacques to
protect his resting place from undignified incidents in which Jean-
Jacques's widow was involved. He must ask her to find a place to
live outside of Ermenonville.

Therese was seized with panic. Her mother had ordered her to
stay by Jean-Jacques's grave. Nicolas, too, had insisted on it. To go
away would be to flout the will of her dear departed. She hardly
dared think what Nicolas would say. Most dreadful thing of all, she
would lose her money these mysterious, incomprehensible annui-
ties and with her money, so her mother had predicted, her Colas's
love. How would she go on living?

The best thing would be to consult Nicolas immediately. She
went off to Paris with the Marquis's letter in her pocket Her one
concern was to get to Nicolas's establishment as quickly as possible.
She had to ask her way, since she had never been to this Tattersall
of his. Once there, the first person she met was her brother Frangois.
When he saw the despair that was written in her face he greeted
her boisterously: "Didn't I tell you the day would come when you'd
run to your brother miserable and in rags? Didn't I tell you so?"

When Nicolas caught sight of her he did not trouble to conceal
his surprise and fury. What was the fat old fright doing in his elegant
establishment? She would drive his customers away. He pushed
her into a corner, and when she began to explain he sharply told her
to shut up and stop bothering him. He ordered her to go to Madame
Beccari in the Ruelle Louis; he would visit her there in the evening
and then they could talk. And now she must be off. His severity re-
minded her of her dear mother and in. itself reassured her.

That evening she told him what had happened and showed him
the letter from the Marquis. He brooded darkly. Then he explained
to her that under no circumstances could he have her here in Paris.
And she must stay near the grave; for they could not yet afford to
do without her annuities. When she asked him plaintively where she
was to go, he replied that he would find her some place to live in the
village of Plessis. Plessis was next to Ermenonville and belonged to
his patron, the Prince de Conde.

203

TPlessis," she repeated despondently. "Plessis." "From there," he
told her, "y u can ^asfly visit *h e graw once or twice a week. And
Monsieur le Marquis would hardly turn you away from the grave," he
added grimly. "Plessis," she repeated once again. "There I'll see even
less of you."

He, however, was now on the trail of a pleasing idea, and he he-
came more cheerful. "Don't moan, my beloved," he consoled her
graciously. "In a year's time, half a year maybe, my Tattersall will
be bringing in so much that your annuities won't amount to a fart.
Then I'll bring you to Paris and well live like lords. Well get mar-
ried, we'll say good-bye to the crumbs from the tables of the rich and
show our love to all the world."

What was giving him so much satisfaction was the prospect, in fact
the certainty, of getting his hands on the papers after all, the papers
the old jade had done him out of. Girardin's dirty trick was a good
pretext for getting the papers away from him.

"For a start," he declared, "we're going to give his lordship an
answer to his arrogant letter an answer that'll take some skin off
his hide. Ill dictate it to you. Your late husband's papers belong to
you, there's no doubt about it, and it's time he gave them back to
you, the swindling jackanapes. You're not to stir from Ermenonville
before you've got your property back!"

Nicolas could not write French and knew that Th6rse only
spelled by ear, so that the letter would be hard to understand. But
that would only make the writing sound tougher, give it more of an
air of simple, primitive hurt feelings, and the high and mighty Mar-
quis would fume at having to hand over the precious papers to
the writer of such a letter.

Nicolas should have been in his Tattersall early next morning, but
he took time off to dictate the letter to Therese. He selected his words
with vindicative relish, and she set them down slowly, laboriously, in
her crude spelling. 1 would not have expected Monsieur de Girardin
to slander Jean-Jacques's widow in this way,' she wrote. 'You call me
names. You say I am unworthy, and you give me a mouthful about
your friendship with my husband. Your mouth may be full of him.
I have him in my heart. I say you are unworthy. You took the papers
away from me. Be so good as to give them back to me all the
papers, also the music and the Confessions. They don't belong to you.
All right, I am leaving your house and I am taking nothing with me
that belongs to you, but I am not going before I get what belongs

204

to me. I am and remain with all respect, monsieur, whatever names
you call me, for all my lif e your faithful Widow of Jean-Jacques/

Nicolas, as he dictated, and Threse, as she wrote, were both
highly delighted. The stuck-up Marquis could stick this letter up
his . . .

Once again Nicolas impressed upon Therese that under no cir-
cumstances was she to leave Ermenonville without the papers. Then
Therese went back, delivered her letter at the cMteau, and sat down
in the chalet to wait.

The Marquis was furious when he received the scurrilous letter.
The writings had been printed, of course, and faithful copies made,
but he was sentimentally attached to the manuscripts. Yet what could
he do? Unless he wished to involve himself in a long and scandalous
lawsuit, he would have to part with the manuscripts. One last time
he got them out, regarded them with emotion, stroked them fondly,
tied them up, said good-bye to them, and sent them to the unworthy
woman.

Suspiciously, TMrese examined the thick packages of writings to
see that they were all there. Then, getting ready for moving, she
wrapped tih e Confessions in one of her petticoats, the Dialogues in
another, and in a third the music of the songs Jean-Jacques had
composed during his last days, the Consolations. And now she would
have to move.

Nicolas had rented her a house in Plessis belonging to a friend
of his, a certain Sieur Bessat. The village of Plessis was unattractive;
the house had a thatched roof and was extremely simple. That did
not disturb Th6rese; the main thing was that it was less than an
hour's walk to the grave. And the rent was low eighty livres a
year, dilapidation included.

Goodman Maurice and Sieur Bessat helped her to move. Maurice
accepted for his trouble a trifle here and there things worthless in
themselves, yet precious souvenirs to him and to others. But the
larger part of the household goods the simple wooden chairs with
rush seats, the piano with the B that always stuck, the beds with the
blue-and-white covers now stood in Bessat's house in Cemetery
Lane at Plessis. The engravings hung on the walls: the forest of Mont-
morency, the lame beggar being fed by children. Nor was the cage
with the canaries missing. And the papers lay once more in their
chest.

Nicolas came, looked around. It was the same furniture, though it

205

looked rather shabby here. On the other hand, here you could be
your own master; there was no Marquis to interfere. And there was
the chest, no longer empty. With satisfaction he opened it, handled
the papers, laid them back again. There was no old jade in his way
now, nor any Marquis; the papers belonged to him, in spite of every-
thing. Perhaps they were a little worn: they had been turned into
horseflesh fine English thoroughbreds; but he felt certain that if the
wind should ever blow colder they would provide shelter.

He had good reason for considering the possibility. His business
could fold up overnight. The young gentlemen with the great names,
his debtors, fed him with promises someday their fathers would
be dead. Yet it would not be advisable to take matters to court.
Every penny of the annuities had already been mortgaged or capi-
talized, and his patron, the Prince de Cond6, helped him with every-
thing but money.

Nicolas was a man of inspiration, boundless energy, and granite
ruthlessness, with that resourceful selfishness which normally assures
great profits but he was not lucky. And now Dame Fortune struck
him such a blow that he was knocked flat. The stallion Lucky Strike
threw him so unluckily that he broke his pelvis. It was the end of
his career as the best riding master in Paris.

For a time Sergeant Frangois tried to keep the Tattersall going as
Nicolas's agent But the creditors demanded their money, there was
no help from Maitre Labouret or the Prince de Conde, and on top of
it all Sergeant Frangois got involved in a brawl with one of the
young gentlemen who owed them money. A nasty story appeared in
the newspapers and Nicolas was forced to abandon his establishment.

He withdrew to Plessis and his mistress, Theresa There he sat and
looked at his sole property, the chest with the papers.

He lived thereafter with Th&ese in Plessis, in Sieur Bessat's house,
amongst Jean-Jacques's furniture, in the vicinity of the grave. He
was a cripple, and even in the foreign tongue, a biting, blustering
talker.

Once more Therese had a man to look after. And she did so with
limitless devotion. She admired her Colas. Everything about him was
great, even his misfortune.

206

Chapter 6 Father and Son

TERSELY FERNAND informed the Marquis that if it were agreeable to
his father he would arrive in Ermenonville in about three weeks.

Girardin held the letter in trembling hands. Femand in England,
perhaps already in France! Fernand here in three weeks! Monsieur de
Girardin suddenly felt old and weak, happy and unhappy, not equal
to the excessive joy and certainly not to the momentous decisions he
now had to make.

Seven long years, two thousand five hundred days and nights he
had been waiting for this letter. When the armistice with England
came he had hoped that Fernand would return. For months he had
hoped Fernand would be drawn home by longing for Gilberte. And
even when with a torn heart he had attended Gilberte's wedding,
he had against all reason continued to hope that the memory of Jean-
Jacques, nostalgia for Ermenonville, and possibly even affection for
his father, might entice his son home. Then he had been confronted
with the news that Fernand had bought plantations in Saint-
Domingue in the West Indies, squandering the greater part of his
mother's money, and moreover had had his head turned by a Made-
moiselle de Traversay a girl of noble birth, it was true, but born
on the islands; that is, a Creole. And still in his foolish heart he had
not been able to give up hope.

And now he held this letter in his hands and gazed at the few
lines and the signature: "Your loving and respectful son, Fernand de
Bregy,* and he was pulled this way and that by surging happiness
and wounded pride. Fernand had not even thought it worth while
to inform him whether he was coming alone or possibly with the
De Traversay family, those Creoles. Should he, as father, soldier, and
mentor accept such lack of consideration without reproof? But if he
reproved, might not the stiff-necked boy change his mind?

He drafted an answer both welcoming and reproaching his son;

207

felt the answer to be clumsy and considered asking Monsieur Gerber
to write it, but rejected the idea and finally wrote himself; felt the
letter to be too unguarded, much too affectionate as well as three
times too long, and sent it off.

In the weeks that followed he tried to make up his mind what his
attitude should be toward the rebel, the insurgent, the apostate who
had joined the company of traders and had stepped down into the
Robinet class the prodigal son. But Fernand could hardly be
called a prodigal son. He was returning with military laurels and
newly acquired riches; his West Indian plantations had increased
in value. How then should Girardin receive him? Kill the fatted calf
or be the stern father?

Then one day the major-domo, quite overwhelmed with emotion,
announced: "Monsieur the Count Bregy has arrived." And Girardin
rushed into the hall and saw the Fernand he knew, as well as a
totally different Fernand, brown, hardened, and manly. Was this
his boy whose cheeks had been smooth only yesterday? Girardin
forgot all his resolutions and embraced his son, hugged him, kissed
him, and stammered, "Fernand!" and, "Is it really you?'* and, "Fer-
nand! My Fernand! My son!"

Fernand for his part had also kept wondering what attitude he
should adopt toward his father. From head to foot his father was a
man of yesterday while he, Fernand, was a man of today, of tomorrow
even. He felt himself mature, while his father was to him a beloved,
headstrong child who was constantly trying to interfere with him.
He had made up his mind to be patient, but not to allow the
loosened ties between them to become too close again. But now, in
the familiar room at Ennenonville, seeing his father looking so much
older than he had imagined and recognizing the grief of seven years
engraved upon his joyful, quivering face, Fernand also could not
help himself; he felt nothing but love.

Girardin accompanied him to his room. On the way up he noticed
that Femand had a limp, slight, but a limp for all that. To his anxious
question Fernand told him he had been wounded quite soon after
joining the army. At first it had looked rather bad and he had taken
care that his father should not hear of it. Girardin was touched by
such thoughtfulness and felt ashamed at ever having doubted his
son's love.

Now that they were together he hoped Fernand would tell him
everything. But Fernand talked only of the events of the last few

208

days. As custom required, he had gone to Paris and Versailles to
report his return. The ministers had received him most graciously;
Monsieur de Segur, the Minister of War, had even held out the
prospect of supplementing his American colonel's commission with
a French one.

Since for the time heing that was all Fernand had to say, Girardin
himself began his tale. He spoke of Emperor Joseph's visit and of
the crowds of pilgrims, and he insisted on showing Fernand the al-
terations he had made in the gardens.

Fernand walked along beside his eager, eloquent father. He did
not find it easy to show the expected enthusiasm. Yes, here was the
landscape of the Nouvelle Heloise, Jean-Jacques's Nature. It was
affecting; it invited you to indulge in dreams and reveries; but was
it not at the same time faintly ridiculous? Fernand, who had seen
the vast forests and rivers of the New World, had grown beyond
these gardens; they seemed a plaything to him, like the marionettes
of his boyhood.

It was a relief to him when his father left him alone at Jean-
Jacques's grave.

All through the arduous campaign and the ups and downs of his
years in the West Indies Fernand had often pictured to himself how
he would feel when he stood at this grave. And now he was un-
moved; the place failed to stir him.

He was much more deeply moved at seeing Monsieur Gerber
again. Always a thin man, his tutor now looked older than his years
and had grown even gaunter and frailer; his hair was sparser and he
blinked his eyes more than ever. He was shaken by the meeting
with his former pupil. "May I embrace you, Fernand?" he asked
shyly, and he blinked and smiled and was hard put to it not to cry.
"Who would have thought it?" he kept saying in German, and could
not take his eyes off Fernand.

Fernand was struck to see how like his Jean-Jacques Monsieur
Gerber had become. Obviously he had set Jean-Jacques up as his
ideal, without reservations as presumably everyone sets up an
ideal by which to live and perhaps unconsciously had modeled
liimself upon him.

"Yes, dearest Fernand," Monsieur Gerber said. "Now you have
what Plato calls the years of apprenticeship and travel behind you.
How manly you have grown!" he marveled. "Of course, it has been
seven years." And, "Your philosophy has grown manlier in contact

209

with the real world too, has it not?" he asked. It was meant to be a
joke, but it sounded like a challenge.

And Fernand, too, distinctly recalled the conversation in which
Gerber had implored him not to doubt the Master. Gerber had been
both right and wrong, and instead of answering the question Fernand
in his turn challenged his former teacher: "My dear Monsieur
Gerber, weren't you, too, shocked by the Confessions?"

It was remarkable that after seven years the two of them should
be continuing their discussion where they had left off. 1 never ex-
pected/' Gerber defended himself, "that the soul of such a great
man would present so calm and peaceful an appearance as in Errnen-
onville. The Confessions increased my humble respect. The words of
the introduction are sound and solid as granite. In all history there
is no other work of such magnificent truthfulness."

Fernand was amazed. Surely Gerber must know of the gulf be-
tween the facts and Jean-Jacques's presentation of them. "Weren't
you surprised," he asked cautiously, "to find Jean-Jacques's view of
his wife so different from the reality?" Monsieur Gerber replied un-
hesitatingly, "J ean ~J ac( l ues was true. Whether the reality is true I
don't know. He had the right to fashion the world according to his
vision. His world is real.' 7 He repeated the sentence in German, rolling
the words on his tongue. "Jean-Jacques's world is more real, more
compelling, more enduring than the so-called real world. Reality will
have to change."

Fernand was touched by Monsieur Gerber's deep, unshakable
faith. Later, alone, he meditated on the Alsatian's words. 'His world
is real. 3 Fernand tested the sentence by his own experiences. His
experiences in America had been hard. There had been few great
moments, but many wearing days spent on distasteful trivialities. He
had seen but little fulfillment, and experienced countless disappoint-
ments. Jean-Jacques's noble savage had turned out to be a mirage.
A little more freedom had been won, but he had seen no sign of
equality or fraternity.

Once, in a downcast mood, he had drawn up a balance sheet of
his American experience and had actually concluded that virtually
nothing had been achieved. In the United States the irresponsible,
reckless, extravagant arrogance of the aristocracy had been replaced
by bourgeois avarice and hypocrisy. That was the outcome after
enormous sacrifices of bringing Jean- Jacques's vision to reality
in America.

210

And yet Monsieur Gerber's Jean-Jacques was no less true than
his own. If Jean-Jacques had been a different person to everyone
when alive, how much more so must he be in death. Even transcend-
ing the personal aspect, Monsieur Gerber was right You had to
distinguish what was eternal in Jean- Jacques from what was com-
monplace. It was wrong to dwell on the frailties that dragged him
down to common humanity; rather, you had to cherish the nobility
in him which compelled you to raise your eyes to his heights. The
great passages in Jean-Jacques's great books blazed forever like the
stars. Jean-Jacques's blindness in everyday matters was ordained by
Providence for the good of mankind; had it not been for that, he
would not have seen the great things so clearly. His blindness had
harmed only himself; his vision had been for the good of alL

In the park one day Fernand met a fat old woman dressed in
black, obviously coming from Jean-Jacques's grave. She looked at
him as if expecting him to recognize her, seemed about to say some-
thing, but then went on her way. Later it occurred to him that the
woman had been Therese. He shook his head at himself, no longer
understanding how he could have been so madly in love with her.
For years he had scarcely given her a thought. What had passed
between them was over and done with; it no longer concerned him.

Even when he heard that she was living in Plessis with that fellow
Nicolas, the news left him strangely cold. He tried to goad himself
into hatred of Jean- Jacques's murderer, remembering that, had it not
been for this creature, the greatest man who had thought and written
in the French tongue would still be alive. But the memory of the
murderer now aroused in him only a faint disgust

A few days later Fernand had his first serious conversation with
Ms father about his personal affairs. Ever since Fernandas arrival his
father's happiness had been overshadowed by questions. How long
would his son stay? Would he stay at all? What about the Creole
woman? At last Monsieur de Girardin took heart and asked, "You
were on our West Indian islands for quite some time, weren't you?
Wouldn't you like to tell me about it?**

Fernand had already made up his mind to tell his father about
his life in Saint-Domingue, but he was vexed at his father's not
waiting for him to introduce the subject himself. In Philadelphia,
he began, there had been a great deal of talk about the abolition of
slavery. Unfortunately it had never gone further than talk. He had
therefore wished to see for himself how the French legislation on

211

slavery, the Code Noir, was working out in the West Indies. "Funda-
mentally, Father," he said with a smile, "it was you who sent me to
Saint-Domingue. It was you who once got me to study RaynaFs work
on our Indies."

Girardin would have preferred to hear about Fernand's personal
affairs, but his son went on expatiating upon this general topic. On the
whole, he declared, the West Indian planters treated their slaves
more humanely than the planters of the southern mainland. The
Cercle des Philadelphes in Cap Frangois did a great deal of good.
He himself was on the governing body of this league of friends of
mankind and had been trying to demonstrate on the very large plan-
tation he had acquired on Saint-Domingue that you could actually
get more work out of the colored people by gentle treatment.

Somewhat irrelevantly the Marquis observed, "I suppose you've
heard that I freed our serfs. I am even thinking of renouncing the
fishing rights." But he was still waiting for Fernand to say something
about Mademoiselle de Traversay, the Creole, and about his own
plans. He waited in vain. Fernand went on talking about the Code
Noir.

Fernand was tempted to bring Hortense de Traversay to France
and to marry her. But he said nothing about her. He was not clear
in his own mind what he ought to do and he did not want to decide
in haste. He had come back to France precisely in order to consider
everything quietly and by himself.

Chapter 7 The Other Gilberte

GTLBERTES MABRIAGE was working out. She Liked Mathieu; she felt
certain that he loved her with body and soul; and this certainty was
comfortable. He did insist pedantically on their both meeting their
various obligations at court, and this she felt to be tiresome. On the
other hand, without the slightest protest, he conscientiously kept the
promises he had made her.
Nevertheless she did not see as much of her grandfather as she

212

would have liked. This was not Mathieu's fault; it was Monsieur
Robinefs. He prized Mathieu's straightforwardness and reliability as
much as Gilberte did; precisely because of it he was unwilling to
force his presence upon his son-in-law. 'Well, child, are you happy
with your count?" he would ask his granddaughter. And she would
answer, "Of course, why not?"

When Monsieur Robinet noticed a change in her, he asked her
whether she would like to stay at Latour until her confinement
Gilberte knew he wanted her near him when the child came into
the world. But this was one wish she could not grant him. She had
promised Mathieu to be in Saint- Vigor, near Versailles, at the time
of the confinement. According to custom, the Queen would then ask
how mother and child were doing, and she would send a personal
representative to the baptism.

Everything went well. The child was born at Saint-Vigor, weighing
seven pounds, and from the day of its birth it was a Countess Cour-
celles with eleven quarterings, who when presented at court would
have entree to the Queen's bedchamber.

The little countess received at baptism the unusual name of Marie-
Sidonia, which was traditional in the Courcelles family. The Queen,
who in her way was fond of lively young Gilberte, drove over to the
baptism in person, and besides the customary gifts she gave a tiny
Pekinese puppy from her own lapdog's new litter. Mathieu was
proud of the honor. Gilberte conceded that the little dog Pompon
was amusing and would look pretty enough on her lap or as a play-
thing for the baby, but the thought of how Fernand would make
fun of it spoiled her pleasure. She never took to the puppy.

The Courcelles were staying at Saint-Vigor when the news of
Fernand's return became known. Gilberte had a faint hope that he
would call on her and was disappointed when he went to Ermenon-
ville without seeing her.

She and Mathieu had been planning to pay a brief visit at Latour
in three weeks. Now she declared that her grandfather was longing
to see little Marie-Sidonia and that she would like to go at once.
Their period of attendance at court was not yet up; Mathieu was
dubious. When she insisted he answered, with a bow, would she
please go to Latour with the child and he would stay in Versailles
to complete his term of duty. This was just what Gilberte had wanted-

Robinet knew his granddaughter to a hair; he understood why she
had come early this time. Casually he remarked that Count Bregy

213

had returned and that in spite of their former disagreement he*
thought the lad might have paid his respects. Soon afterward, when
Fernand still did not come, he remarked that of course there was no
reason why they should not drive over to Ermenonville.

Shortly after Fernandas return the Marquis had remarked to him
that he saw a good deal of Monsieur Robinet. But Fernand had
mastered his feelings and asked no questions about Gilberte. He said
nothing even when his father told him that Gilberte was at Latour.
But he blushed. Seven years had not taught him to control his
features.

His account of the motives that had taken him to the West Indies
had been less than half of the truth. Philosophy had been only one
of the motives; Hortense de Traversay's presence had been another;
but there had been a third, stronger than the other two. He had
wished to postpone his return to France, had wanted to put Gilberte
to the test, to keep her waiting. If she waited long enough he would,
he had decided, forgive her. Now, when he heard that Gilberte was
so close by, he realized with painful clarity that he had gambled
wantonly and deservedly lost.

Be that as it may, he was not going to crawl. He was not going to
run to her after the way he had been humiliated at Latour.

Then what he had feared and perhaps also hoped happened:
coming in from a walk he found two visitors in conversation with
his father Monsieur Robinet and Gilberte.

Suddenly he was a boy again. Time had turned back: Jean-
Jacques had never been in Ermenonville, Fernand had not gone
to America nor had Gilberte married. The Gilberte of yesterday and
a week ago had come to visit them with her grandfather, as always
without forewarning or formality. And Fernand and Gilberte sig-
naled to each other with their eyes, as they always had, and they
knew they would now stand up and leave die elders to themselves.

They did stand up and leave the elders to themselves. They
strolled in the gardens.

Presumably they had made conversation inside the house, talked
trivialities; presumably they were talking conventional trivialities
now also; but if so, they were unaware of it. The first words Gilberte
consciously spoke and Fernand consciously heard were, "What have
you done to your foot, Fernand? I hope it isn't serious." There was so
much tenderness and solicitude in her voice that he blessed the
Englishman or Hessian whose bullet had struck him.

214

He said little. Gilberte did the talking. Toil Ve grown so mature,
Feniand," she remarked. "I expected that, and yet it surprises me."
And, "Everything is changed, yet not changed," she said. And this,
too, was idle talk or had it a special meaning?

"I had a good many problems to contend with," Fernand said at
last. He spoke with an effort; he did not want to be overcome by the
feelings of the moment In the past, Gilberte had not understood
his problems; she had never understood or wished to understand
him, and he could not help reminding her of it. "Yes, you Ve rubbed
up against the Vorld," Gilberte replied, and her quoting his own
words to her both annoyed and flattered him. "And you have had
many adventures," she went on, and no one, not even she herself,
could have said how much she said in jest, how much in earnest.

"Yes^ I've had some remarkable experiences," Femand replied
dryly. ''Problems appear quite different in reality from what they do in
books." Now he was back on his favorite subject, and he was happy.
He spoke about slavery and what Franklin had said on the subject,
and the views of Washington and Jefferson, and how the situation
was quite different on the French islands from what it was on the
mainland of America simpler and yet more complex. He spoke
about ideals and things as they were, and he grew excited and was
the old boyish Fernand, and he limped a little and was a wonderful
and alarming person.

In Gilberte's presence Fernand had felt all his old feelings for her;
alone again he found his way back to reason and his philosophy.
Apparently she took it for granted that the past was dead, and was
able to enjoy the happiness of the moment. Such simple happiness was
denied to him. He could not forget that she had linked herself more
closely than ever to that dangerous, irresponsible circle from which
he himself had escaped. Today she had no more understanding of
him and his world than she had had in the past She had uttered
not a single word of doubt or regret. He had talked himself hoarse
trying to explain the problem of slavery to her; she had asked no
questions and had shown no interest. He even thought he had
detected a tiny smile around her mouth a hard, unkind smile and
the more he tried to recall what this smile was like, the more spiteful
it seemed to him.

Now he knew what he must do. He would go back to Saint-
Domingue immediately. He looked forward to his work there and
longed for Hortense. He saw Hortense de Traversay now as he had

215

seen her for the first time in the ballroom of the Governor's residence,
saw her come gliding in, tall and slender and so young, her smooth
face gleaming with pallor beneath her powdered hair, her shoulders
emerging delicately from her bronze-colored gown. The cool way in
which she had looked at and through him with her large amber eyes,
the way she had asked in her high, mocking voice after his master,
Jean-Jacques all this had captivated and excited him. To be sure,
she was insanely proud, this daughter of ancient French and Castilian
nobility, but there were times when she intuitively understood him,
when she became his Julie, and those sublime hours compensated ten-
fold for the suffering and gnawing vexation she sometimes caused
him. It would be glorious to bring her to France, to show her this
wonderful country to which, for all its decadence, the future be-
longed, to enlighten her in his own and Jean-Jacques's spirit. He
would not be such a fool as to lose his Hortense by 'putting her to the
test' and needlessly making her wait. He would return to Saint-
Domingue. Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest, he would
inform his father that he was going to the West Indies to bring home
his bride.

And he would also go to Latour tomorrow and inform Gilberte of
his decision. He was not afraid to tell her to her face what he meant
to do, that all was over between them and this was farewell forever.

Instead of riding to Latour on horseback he went in a carriage,
dressed in his uniform. It was not Fernand going to Gilberte; Count
Br^gy was formally paying a farewell visit to Madame de Courcelles.
He rather expected some awkward moments; he might even be
obliged to see Gilberte's child and admire it.

He found a natural, fresh, lovable Gilberte dressed in country
clothes. "I hope I don't have to dress up for you, Fernand," she said
jokingly, and he felt rather foolish wearing his splendid uniform and
his sword. She chattered gaily as she had done in the days when
they had been really close. What had given him the idea that she
had changed? When she smiled, her smile was not hard and unkind;
it was the smile of the Nouvelle Heloise and he felt he had been
foolish, blinded by crazy hallucinations.

She talked about the friendship between her grandfather and the
Marquis. Girardin was forever dinning into her grandfather's ears
that he ought to remodel the gardens at Latour according to his prin-
ciples. But Monsieur Robinet categorically refused. If he wanted
Nature it must be real Nature; if he wanted a park then it must

216

have yew and box and fountains and geometric flower beds. He
would not give a sou for Monsieur de Girardin's imitation Nature.
They were always twitting each other, these two old gentlemen, and
at the same time they couldn't get along without each other. Gilberte
told her story merrily, lightly, but not without sympathy.

She said nothing about her Mathieu or her little Marie-Sidonia
or about the Queen and the little dog Pompon. Nor did she ask after
his Creole, though naturally she had heard of Mademoiselle de Tra-
versay. Nor did she mention past differences.

Fernand listened to her chatter, apprehending less the sense than
the sound of her words. But once she said, "Isn't Monsieur Robinet
a wonderful man?" and this he caught, understanding at once. It
was her delicate way of reproaching him for having left her, and
what reproach could have been more delicately put? His heart was
heavy, yet elated, for it had learned wisdom. It would really have
been better for them both if he had followed Monsieur Robinet's ad-
vice and waited until the French expeditionary force left.

But no, that was nonsense. He had had to act as he did. Yet he
could not escape the thought of how differently everything would
have turned out if he had been more reasonable in those days.
Gilberte and Hortense merged in his mind. He rode around his West
Indian possessions with Gilberte. She admired the vastness of his
estates they seemed utterly limitless and she had him explain
why he did one thing thus and another thing so. She smiled appre-
ciatively, fondly, with a trace of ironical amusement at his enthusiasm.

When they parted that day they were very close to each other.

He did not speak to his father about leaving. Instead he wrote to
Hortense that the situation in France compelled him to stay there
for the time being; it might be years before he could return to Saint-
Domingue. He wrote cordially, matter-of-factly, as a friend rather
than as a lover.

The next time he went to Latour, Gilberte did not receive him
alone. Mathieu had arrived. Gilberte, not in the least embarrassed,
treated Fernand as her dearest and closest friend. Mathieu, too,
accepted him as an intimate friend of the family. Fernand, however,
showed uneasiness.

And when little Marie-Sidonia was brought in, and the dog Pom-
pon, Gilberte became a complete stranger to him, one of the ladies
of Versailles.

He left Latour profoundly confused. Had he been dreaming when

217

he was there last? Once more he was shocked by the realization of
how greatly the image of the same person could vary in his mind.
He could picture all at once a former Gilberte and a later, new and
different one, and still another one, and then others, but never these
images would merge.

He tried to avoid seeing Gilberte, but he could not help meeting
her frequently. Most of the time he was reserved and uneasy with
her.

Then again all the emotions of earlier days would overcome him;
he would forget Mathieu's existence and would have to remind him-
self forcibly of all that stood between them.

Gilberte found he had not changed, and even though he tried hard
not to have her come too close to him, he had evidently broken with
his Creole on her account.

Once, when she was alone with him, the child came in. Marie-
Sidonia was, according to custom, heavily and formally dressed in a
very grown-up style. Her manner, too, with its doll-like solemnity,
had something adult about it Gilberte noticed that Fernand was
regarding the child thoughtfully and remarked that she herself would
prefer to rear the child to be noisy and natural as she and Fernand
had been. But Mathieu and her grandfather insisted on Marie-
Sidonia's being brought up with the stiffness proper to her station;
in view of the encroaching disorder and unrest, they said, it was all
the more important.

Fernand looked at Gilberte, looked at the child, and said nothing.
But Gilberte saw how much he disapproved of her, and the tiny
hard smile appeared on her face.

Chapter 8 Whose Jean-Jacques?

SINCE FERNANDAS return, lavish hospitality was once more the order
of the day in the Marquis's house. Philosophers, writers, and pro-
gressive noblemen visited, as well as most of the "Americans'
Frenchmen who had championed the cause of the fighters for freedom

218

in the English colonies. The American Ambassador, Thomas Jefferson,
also came several times.

Conversation at ErmenonviUe chiefly revolved around domestic
politics. The finances of France were in a bad way. The two priv-
ileged classes, the nobility and the clergy, were not only exempt
from taxation but collected for themselves a great part of the taxes
in the form of feudal levies, while the majority of the populace of this
rich country lived poorly, in fact miserably. Already disturbances
had broken out here and there. A fundamental shake-up was needed,
a reform of the kingdom root and branch a revolution.

The free-thinking gentlemen in Monsieur de Girardin s circle of
friends regarded a revolution as inevitable. But they believed it would
be a peaceful revolution. They already perceived signs of progress
on all sides. Enlightened ministers were trying to restrict the pre-
rogatives of the privileged classes; a welcome evolution was going
on. The revolution would be in the hands of the philosophers and
political scientists; it would come from above. The King himself was
well-meaning; liberal advisers would ultimately prevail on him to
proclaim a constitution and equal rights for all.

Fernand did not believe this. Practical experience had taught him
that halfhearted proposals and cautious regulations could accomplish
little against the tenacious opposition of a determined ruling class.
The well-meant measures of a few highly placed individuals were
not of much use; even the liberal Emperor Joseph could not get fan
The feudal system of the kingdom would have to be completely
abolished, and this could be achieved only by those who suffered
physically and economically from the present system. The funda-
mental shake-up could come only from below, from the masses, the
people.

For centuries the lower classes had fatalistically accepted their
misery as something unalterable. But now Jean-Jacques had come
along and shown that another social order was perfectly possible. The
lower classes had heard about it; they knew Jean-Jacques by name
and had a dim idea of his teachings. They were beginning to wake
up, to rub their eyes, and when they came wide awake they were
going to throw off their oppression. Jean-Jacques's state was coming,
but there would not be anything very philosophical about its making.

When Fernand spoke in this way he met with astonished, incredu-
lous looks. Was he in earnest? Was he expecting a bloody revolution
such as England had had in the previous century? No, in this en-

219

lightened France of theirs that sort of thing was impossible, his
friends maintained. They would put through the needed revolution
peacefully and keep it on the right track.

One night Fernand and his father attended a soiree in Paris given
by Madame de Beauvau, widow of the field marshal. Members of
the Academie and ladies and gentlemen of the Court were there,
and once again the conversation turned on how far the teachings of
Voltaire and Jean- Jacques had already been realized. Progress could
fee seen everywhere; the dawn of an Age of Reason was at hand. "We
shall all of us live to see this happy revolution!" someone cried.

Among the guests was a fine-looking elderly man named Cazotte,
a respected author who wrote charming narrative poetry. Monsieur
Cazotte was a mystic; he believed there were people who could
foresee the future and that he was one of them. He had listened
silently to the conversation for a while. "Certainly, ladies and gentle-
men," he now put in, "you will live to see this great, glorious revolu-
tion of yours, but you will not outlive it. Most of you will perish by it,
and in a most horrible way." There was laughter. "How could that
be, under the guidance of reason and philosophy?" "It will be pre-
cisely in the name of philosophy and on the altars of reason that
they will sacrifice you," he replied, and in terrifying detail he de-
scribed how this or that member of the company would perish. "Do
you mean to say that Turks and Tartars will rule in France?" someone
asked. "By no means," answered Monsieur Cazotte. "The philoso-
phers will rule. The judges who pronounce your sentence will mouth
the same maxims that you have been spouting for the past hour.
With quotations from Diderot, Rousseau, and Voltaire you will be
sent to your deaths/' "Enough of these melancholy jests!" the hostess
commanded. "Just one more question," one of the guests pleaded.
"How will you yourself fare, Monsieur TAbb6?" he said, turning to
Monsieur Cazotte. "You have all read your Josephus," was the reply,
"so you surely remember the incident of the man who walks around
wailing on the walls during the siege of Jerusalem. For days on end
he wails, Woe, Jerusalem! Woe is me!' till finally he is felled by a shot
from the besiegers." Monsieur Cazotte bowed and departed.

His prognostications were much discussed in Paris and Versailles,
and caused considerable amusement. Fernand was not amused. Were
all these friends of his blind? Not that he believed in prophecies and
things of that sort; like the others he was averse to any form of mys-
ticism and superstition. Yet he and the whole company had been

220

uncannily affected by Gazette's words; for all sensed that the man
had spoken not only out of a prophet's faith in his intuition. Deeply
felt insight into the condition of the country had also inspired him.
His words should at least have prompted his hearers to consider the
possibility that their own ideas might be wrong. Fernand's friends
were so clever; they had studied their philosophers and read their
historians, ancient and modern; their arguments were phrased
smoothly, elegantly and convincingly. Yet couldn't they see what
was under their noses? Could it be that, although they saw the broad
picture, they were blind to what was all around them the wretched,
the oppressed, who were beginning to use their minds and were
about to fight?

For Fernand it was not a matter of belief. He knew that what was
coming could not be channeled like the little brooks at Ermenonville;
it would be a great flood which would sweep many to destruction,
possibly himself also. But he was prepared to accept the great revo-
lution in whatever form it came, and he wanted to help bring it to
pass.

There was no point in arguing with sophisticates about Jean-
Jacques's theories; they knew them already. It was a matter of sim-
plifying them, making them comprehensible to the people, getting
the people to act by them.

But in order to do that you must share the traits of the people. You
had to be one with the masses, one with the people. Fernand had
never belonged to the people. Looking back now on the bitter years
in the Military Academy he could see what the others had resented
in him. There had always been too much inborn aristocratic pride
in him. And no matter how chummy he got with the village boys,
and no matter how hard he tried, he had always remained Count
Bregy, their future seigneur. This last barrier standing between him-
self and Martin Catrou was never removed.

Only in America, in the army, had things been different. There,
during the hard years of the war, in battle, in danger, there had been
genuine comradeship between himself and the others.

That he was a stranger among his own people was brought pain-
fully home to him when the Ile-de-France region suffered terrible
floods. The gentle little rivulet Nonette became a turbulent river;
the gardens of Ermenonville were inundated; water threatened the
harvest of peasants and tenants on all the Marquis's estates. The
Marquis organized, gave orders, went without sleep, and helped the

221

peasants by supplying extra hands, implements, and money. Fernand
observed with astonishment that they did not appreciate it. The
people were unwilling to see that his father was exerting himself
almost beyond his strength for their sake. They remained as suspi-
cious as ever: to them the seigneur and his son were strangers.

Oh, if he only could succeed in breaking down the walls which
stood between himself and the others! Fernand longed for close
contact with the others; he longed for friends, enemies.

He knew about the common people from books, from casual con-
versations, from shared dangers, and from vague intuitions. But stilt
he knew nothing about them. The common people always reacted
differently from what one expected. Fraternity! He must become like
the people if he wished to be in truth their brother.

The first step was to get to know them.

By good luck the town of Senlis was seeking a consultant to repre-
sent the town in its frequent dealings with the higher authorities and
to advise the individual townspeople and peasants of the neighbor-
hood. Fernand volunteered for the position.

The Marquis dropped gentle hints that Fernand might do better
to enter the Ministry of Finance or the Ministry of War, where he
could be sure of rapid promotion. But since Fernand would not hear
of it, Monsieur de Girardin did not press the matter. In fact, he
showed that he understood his son's motives. He praised Fernand
to his friends as a sincere disciple of Jean- Jacques who was seeking
out the common people and preferred the modest affairs of the good
little town of Senlis to brilliant court posts.

Fernand took his new job so seriously that he moved to Senlis. He
lived there, not in one of the many empty mansions of the nobility,
but in an old, unpretentious farmhouse on the edge of the town.

The dignitaries of Senlis the bishop, the president of the district
court, the mayor were flattered to have the future seigneur of
Ermenonville among their fellow citizens. The beaux-esprits of the
town, its historian, its poet, its gazetteer, all hoped to see him take
part in their social life. But his self-appointed profession completely
absorbed him. He associated solely with artisans in need of his advice,
with peasants, shopkeepers, and clerks. He attempted to help them
not only in legal matters but also in the problems of their daily
lives. With humility and determination he struggled to win the friend-
ship of the little people.

And in Senlis he met again the friend of his youth, Martin Catrou.

222

Martin had learned a great deal from Maitre Bouvier in Paris.
True, tie had not been able to obtain an attorney's diploma; he had
not been young enough for the long and tedious course of study. In
point of fact he was no more than a glorified clerk who knew his
way around in the law. But his familiarity with Jean- Jacques's works
enabled him to dress his arguments effectively in philosophy, and he
was successful in cases where accredited attorneys failed.

He soon acquired the reputation of being one who helped good
men to obtain justice in spite of bad laws.

He would advance his arguments firmly, bluntly, in a clear, strident
voice. His brusque directness, his reliance on the strength of logic,
his inflexible refusal to compromise, soon won him many friends and
followers.

Among these was a certain Jeanne Maupetit. Jeanne's father, an
obstinate, hardheaded citizen of Paris, had engaged in a dispute with
a nobleman, had been defeated and had died in prison. Jeanne was not
exactly pretty, but she was efficient and intelligent; her father's fate
had taught her philosophy. To her Martin was a man who not only
talked about Jean-Jacques's teachings but lived them, and she be-
came his disciple. Her fanatical faith made her beautiful in his eyes.
He married her.

Jeanne had been able to salvage some money from her father's mis-
fortunes. Hence Martin was free to accept cases of the oppressed
against the privileged where his clients could pay him little or nothing
at all.

A certain Sieur Vieillard, citizen of Senlis, to whom Martin had
given sound legal advice, urged him to settle in Senlis. The sugges-
tion intrigued Martin. He liked the idea of working in the town
which was so familiar to him, where he had lived in obscurity, re-
garded as one of the least among the people. Settled here, he soon
won admiring friends. He was elected to the Town Council.

And there, in the Senlis town hall, Fernand met his friend Martin
once again.

Fernand had assumed, of course, that his friend would have
changed in the intervening years, yet he was amazed at tie mature,
broad, solid, confident, experienced Martin who confronted him. It
made Fernand feel like an adolescent again. He stared at him. "Is that
you, Martin?" he said foolishly. **I believe it is," Martin answered.
Grinning, he took stock of Fernand with his dark intelligent, mocking
eyes. He noted the keenness of his face, the furrows above his nose,
his embarrassment.

9.9,3

Both were delighted to have met each other again, yet mutually
suspicious. From the first moment their old relationship was restored,
the old friendly enmity.

Fernand also had been taking stock of the other man. Martin was
dressed as of old, with exaggerated carelessness. His hair grew low
on his broad forehead and was combed down even lower. His whole
appearance was militant and rebellious.

"Isn't it odd that we haven't met sooner?" asked Fernand with
slightly forced cheerfulness. "So you think that too, Count Bregy?" the
other replied in his clear, strident voice. "What's this, Martin?" said
Fernand with affectionate reproach. "Why so formal?" Martin ob-
served that Fernand limped slightly as he walked up to him. "Of
course," he said, "I know. You've done your bit for us little people
meanwhile." But there was warmth behind his mocking words.

"You must come to see me," said Fernand. "We've got much to tell
each other. Come to dinner." "May I invite you to visit me?" Martin
returned. "My wife would be delighted, I know, and my mother would
be glad to see you again too." Fernand had heard of his father's quar-
rel with the Widow Catrou, and hesitated for a second before he said,
"Of course Til visit you if you would rather have it so." "All right,"
said Martin, "in that case 111 come to your place tonight."

During Fernand's absence in America, Martin had been eager for
every report about him and had rejoiced when he heard something
to Fernand's credit. But since Fernand's return to France, Martin
had been vexed with him more often than pleased. Everything he did
went to prove that he had not learned much in America. What he was
up to in Senlis struck Martin as ineffectual dilettantism, pure tom-
foolery. But Fernand was born an aristocrat and that was all there
was to it; being smart came easier to Martin. He would have to be
lenient with his boyhood friend. On the way to Fernand's house he
made up his mind to curb his tongue and not to needle Fernand.

At first all went well. But then Fernand began to talk about his
clients artisans and shopkeepers their troubles and their everyday
affairs. He spoke with feeling; he behaved as if he were himself one
of the lower class, and this rubbed Martin the wrong way. Here Fer-
nand had been in America and it still had not dawned on him that he
had no more place in the world of the common people than a cow in
the Academie. Grandfather Popaule and Goodman Michel with whom
he was so thick reckoned in sous while he reckoned in louis d'or. A
born aristocrat should not try to force himself upon the people.

224

"It's nice here," said Martin, "and not at all pretentious. I must
admit," he went on spitefully, "I was surprised you didn't move into
the Palais L6vis." This palace was the family seat of the ancient family
of the Dukes of Levis, and the Levis were friends of the Girardins.
"What on earth would I have done in the Palais Levis?" asked Fer-
nand, more amused than annoyed. "Well/' Martin returned, "the
chapel alone would be a daily delight to a nobleman." The chapel con-
tained a thirteenth-century altarpiece representing the then Seigneur
de Levis, who traced his ancestry back to Levi, the third son of the
Patriarch Jacob: the Seigneur de Levis was kneeling before the
Blessed Virgin, and she, by means of a scroll issuing from her mouth,
was graciously bidding him: "Couvrez-vous, mon cousin."

Fernand laughed good-naturedly. "I know Gaston de Levis well,"
he replied, "and I can assure you he makes fun of the altarpiece as
much as you and I do." Serious once more he laid his arm across
Martin's shoulders and said chidingly, "Why this silly talk? Why are
you always baiting me? What have I done to you?" "Nothing but
good," said Martin mockingly., trying his best to keep the rancor out of
his voice. But red spots appeared on his forehead. "You people have
always done nothing but good to me; nothing but charity. First your
father showed my mother who was master, but then he turned philan-
thropic and sent me to Paris to serve my apprenticeship. If Tve got
anywhere today the seigneur can say he was responsible. He dis-
penses favors, he lets the light of his countenance shine even upon
me. I don't want favors!" he burst out in a strident voice. "I want my
rights, the rights I was born with, those your Jean-Jacques talked so
much about." Fernand was silent, and Martin went on, "He is not your
Jean- Jacques. He has nothing to do with your favors. He has to do
with our rights. He belongs to us, Jean- Jacques/*

And now Fernand too grew red in the face. He would have liked
to tussle with Martin as in the old days, but he did not wish to be
hotheaded as his father had been when he took Widow Catrou's shop
away from her. "Have you ever realized," he quietly replied, "that
you're far prouder of belonging to the people than our sort are of
our birth?"

Martin did not take this up. "I thought Jean- Jacques a fool," he ad-
mitted. "I made fun of him, and when I think of how he used to
wander about Ermenonville like a St. Francis it makes me laugh even
today. And the Nouvelle Heloise is trash. You Girardins can keep it,
as well as all that 'Nature' of his. The Jean-Jacques who wrote that

225

belongs to you all right. But the Inequality and the Social Contract
all that will always be Chinese puzzles to people like you, no matter
how much you declaim about them. Only people who come from
down below can catch on to that Jean-Jacques. And that, my dear
fellow, is why he is our Jean-Jacques/'

Martin was annoyed with himself. To be sure, he was right: his
friend could no more understand the hard truths of the Social Contract
than he himself could rave about the emotional moonshine of the
Nouvelle Heloise, simply because he had always been hungry while
all his life Fernand had had his belly full. But this was something he
could not explain to Fernand and so ought not to have got involved in
the argument. "Tell me about America," he said, to change the subject
"They say the whole spirit has evaporated and privilege has only
changed its name. Tell me about it, please/ 7

You must not judge what had happened in America by European
standards, Fernand began. In America there was no Paris, there were
no big cities, the people had no seigneurs to contend with, but In-
dians and the elements. Moreover, those who had seriously wanted
the revolution had been greatly in the minority, at any rate in the
early years, and there had been fewer enlightened members of the
privileged class than over here. Which only made the victory more
significant. That exaltation did not last forever, that greed and petty
jealousies crept forth again, was only human, was only natural.

"So you are disappointed," Martin summed up practically. Fernand
hesitated for a moment. Then he said, "Much has been achieved. And
it remains a great example."

By the time they took leave of each other they had talked them-
selves back to cordiality and were looking forward to their next
meeting.

But though they resolved to be patient with one another, they quar-
reled repeatedly when they had to discuss affairs of the town of Senlis
and of individual citizens, and each used words intended to wound
the other.

They remained friends, but even the people of Senlis sensed the
latent conflict. Martin's adherents were suspicious of Fernand; Fer-
nand's adherents were suspicious of Martin.

Fernand labored humbly and unremittingly to win his common
people, and soon many saw him not as a capricious protector but as
a sincere friend. But those words of Martin's had bitten deep; there
was a kernel of truth in them more than a kernel. A part of Jean-

226

Jacques was shut away from him; a part belonged to the 'others/ to
the people.

Chapter 9 The Grievances of the
Town of Senlis

A GREAT RUMBLING passed through the land: the States-General had
been summoned for the first time in one hundred and seventy-five
years. The government had got itself into such dire financial straits
that it no longer dared to draw up a budget without the consent of
the people.

The States-General, the Etats Generaux, consisted of delegates from
the two privileged classes, the nobility and the clergy, and from the
Third Estate the unprivileged bourgeoisie. Now, a significant pro-
gressive innovation was introduced: the Third Estate was granted
a total of as many delegates as the two privileged classes together.
Moreover, the delegates were to be elected by popular vote and every
tax-paying Frenchman above the age of twenty-five was eligible to
vote. For the first time since the Roman Republic gave way to the
rule of the Caesars, for the first time in almost two thousand years,
a people and it happened to be the people of the greatest nation
of Europe were going to determine the nature of their economy
by their own vote.

A storm of hope swept through the country.

All Communes were accorded the privilege of entrusting their dep-
uties with definite orders, with cahiers listing their desires and griev-
ances.

The Town Council of Senlis requested Count Fernand Bregy and
Sieur Martin Catrou to draw up its cahier.

The two men began to argue at once. Fernand thought he had
learned something from his experiences in Senlis. He wanted to stress
a sharp presentation of specific abuses. In particular, he wished to

227

demand in firm language the building of levees along the river
Nonette, the abolition of certain highway rights and tolls, and above
all, restriction of the royal family's hunting privileges.

Martin smiled at this. He knew all about the Girardins' interminable
squabble with the Capitainerie Royale over the Prince de Conde's
hunting privileges.

Martin himself did not hope for much from this meeting of the
States-General, for all the preliminary fanfare. He took it for granted
that concessions in minor matters would be used to buy the consent
of the people's deputies to new heavy taxes. Then they would be sent
home. The whole business would be a solemn farce, and after it was
over the two privileged classes would be as firmly seated as ever on
the backs of the Third Estate. But just because he anticipated this,
he felt that it would be a shame to waste time on trivialities. Instead,
essential reforms must be demanded: the separation of executive and
legislative power, and responsibility of the ministers to the people
in short, a binding constitution. Now that the Third Estate for once
was being given a chance to speak to the country and to the world,
they must all and especially the small communes pound away
at this basic demand.

After a great deal of contention Martin and Fernand agreed on a
text which put the main emphasis upon the demand for a constitution,
but which also clamored for the elimination of specific abuses.

The town councilors of Senlis murmured their respect for the logic
and eloquence of the memorandum. They had no objection to the im-
pervious tone in which the demand for a constitution was couched;
but they exchanged worried looks over the aggressive language de-
scribing the Capitainerie Royale's violation of the rights of others.
Such a tone might provoke the Prince de Cond6 into acts of spite,
possibly into taking active punitive measures against the town. How-
ever Fernand insisted on the wording of his text, and his good friend
Martin backed him up. Finally the town councilors requested that
both gentlemen sign the cakier as acknowledgment of authorship, and
it relieved their minds to see the signature of the future seigneur of
Ermenonville on the document.

The meeting of the States-General was opened with a magnificent
ceremony. It was a fine day in May, and the Parisians had come out
to Versailles by the thousands to witness the historic spectacle. In a
long procession the Court and tibe twelve hundred deputies paraded
through the gaily bedecked streets of the town to the church of Saint

228

Louis for divine worship. Reactionary court officials had thought up
a petty trick to stress the gulf between the privileged classes and the
citizenry: the deputies were required to appear in the ancient cos-
tumes of the estates, such as had been worn at the last session a hun-
dred and seventy-five years ago. Consequently the nobles and pre-
lates marched along in old-fashioned costumes made of cloth of gold,
silk and brocades, while the citizens wore the simplest sort of dress,
topped by black cloaks. But among the representatives of the nobility
many well-known liberals were to be seen. There were also a number
of "Americans; such as Lafayette and some of his friends; and some
members of the nobility - Count Mirabeau, for example - were to
be found among the deputies of the Third Estate. In permitting them-
selves to be elected as representatives of the common people these
noblemen were publicly proclaiming their opposition to the Court.

The spectators joyfully took this intermingling of the classes as a
grand symbol of national unity. Versailles was filled with hope and
confidence on that glorious spring day when the King himself, and
the Archbishop of Paris, carrying the Host, walked along in the pro-
cession in order to sanctify the impending transformation of the
kingdom.

Monsieur de Girardin was bursting with joy and pride. This great
reformation was taking place as he had always hoped and predicted
it would. Not a savage, convulsive uprising of the rabble, but the
sound leadership of France's nobility, men of his sort, was going to
translate the ideas of Jean- Jacques into reality.

Fernand, however, caught on to the trick of the costume regulations
which made the delegates of the Third Estate feel their inferiority,
and he was outraged. He could not forget Martin's skeptical insistence
that the privileged classes would stop at no dodges and tricks to cheat
the people out of their rights. He felt ashamed of his own resplendent
ceremonial attire and watched, infuriated, his Gilberte, driving in the
Queen's retinue in the stiff, bejeweled gown of a lady-in-waiting, as
motley as a meadow full of spring flowers.

But gradually, as he began to sense how the great demonstration
of unity was stirring the skeptical citizens of Paris and even the
haughty nobles, his doubts began to dissolve. And finally, when in the
church of Saint Louis the progressive Bishop of Nancy officially wel-
comed the delegates, Fernand firmly believed the great undertaking
would succeed. In the very presence of the King the Bishop indicted
the prevailing system, pointed to the people's abominable misery, and

229

quoted the words of the Prophet: 'Thou shalt create new people and
the face of the earth shall be changed/ And the whole vast assembly
for the first time in the history of France applauded and cheered
in a place o worship, in the presence of the Host and in the presence
of the Crown.

The events of the following week appeared to prove Fernand right
and confute Martin's skepticism. When the representatives of the
privileged orders employed legal tricks to fetter the delegates of the
Third Estate, the latter offered resistance; and when the King ordered
their dispersal, they bound themselves by a solemn oath not to sep-
arate. They declared themselves the National Assembly. The Court
and the two privileged orders had to yield,

Fernand exulted.

But very soon he was to experience how powerful the adversary
still felt

For meantime the cahiers containing the grievances and petitions
of the communes had been examined. The insolent, threatening lan-
guage employed by the town of Senlis in protesting against the 'ex-
cesses' of the Prince de Conde's gamekeepers had infuriated the
Prince. Seeing the signature of that disagreeable young fellow Girar-
din on the document inflamed his anger.

Over a game of cards he told his cousin the King about the outrage.
Louis sympathized with De Conde's vexation. Young Girardin had
annoyed him more than once. He had no scruples about spouting
the seditious doctrines of that libertine Jean- Jacques; even while still
a boy he liad become an 'American" and run away from home and
father. In signing an atrocious petition on behalf of seditious com-
moners he had probably even drawn it up himself he was be-
traying his own class, fouling his own nest. Moreover, Louis himself
was passionately fond of hunting, and what were things coming to
if in addition to surrendering so many prerogatives of the Crown he
allowed even its hunting privileges to be curtailed? He would give
the young gentleman a chance to reflect on his own impertinence
a while. He would have the mutinous fellow arrested by letter and
seal, by a lettre de cachet, a special royal decree, and taken off to
the Bastille.

Two days later Monsieur Robinet and his family turned up at Er-
menonville. The old gentleman, who had his agents everywhere, in-
formed the Girardins that the King, at De Conde's instigation, had
had an order issued for Fernandas arrest. Fernand probably Lad no

230

more than a few hours in which to escape.

The Bastille rose up before Fernand., its massive walls and towers,
grim and gray. While danger and hardships held no terrors for him
he was nevertheless afraid of the helpless life in those dreary dun-
geons so full of centuries of accumulated anguish. And he thought
of Martin; he pictured Martin's face wearing a wry look of mingled
mockery and pity.

All eyes were turned on Fernand. Everyone waited.

The Marquis was terribly alarmed. He was eager to order the car-
riage out and drive his son over the border himself. But he knew
his Fernand's obstinacy, knew that entreaties and good advice were
of no avail. He conquered his feelings and said nothing.

But then Monsieur Robinet spoke for him. "Take an old man's ad-
vice/' he said. "Take your best horse and be off. It does no one any
good for you to stay; you only harm yourself. It may be a long time
before freedom is won, and it isn't very agreeable to sit and wait for
it in the Bastille"

Fernand remembered how Monsieur Robinet had advised him
once before. The old man had been right then, and yet he had been
wrong. And that was how it was now, too.

"If I were you," Mathieu surprisingly urged him, "I would not dis-
miss Monsieur Robinet's advice." The effort it cost him to say this
was apparent; it meant something when a brave man like Count
Courcelles, so particular in matters of honor, advised anyone to run
away.

Gilberte said nothing, only kept her eyes fixed on Fernand. He
knew she would think it foolish of him to stay, but that she would
certainly be disappointed if he fled. Martin's reaction would be sim-
ilar- Martin would be scornful if he stayed and more scornful still if
he went. And was not Martin in just as much danger as Fernand
himself? Martin was probably on the way to some safe place already.
But he would grin and say, "A Martin Catrou may do things which
a Count Bregy may not do/*

Fernand thanked his friends for their advice and said he would
think it all over.

An hour later an agitated Monsieur Gerber came* timidly to him.
After several false starts the tutor said that he knew his dear pupil
Fernand was still ruled entirely by his heart. But he would like to
point out that Jean- Jacques would certainly have urged him to hasten
beyond the reach of despotism. More than once Jean-Jacques had

231

been in the same plight as the one Fernand now was in and had
regarded flight and exile as martyrdom enough. Fernand warmly
pressed his tutor's hand.

He stayed on in Ermenonville and waited for the bailiffs to bring
the warrant for his arrest, the lettre de cachet.

Chapter 10 Jean-Jacques's People

THE LETTBE DE CACHET of the tenth of July decreeing the arrest of
Fernand de Girardin was the last privy warrant which Louis signed
and sealed, and it was never carried out. For on the fourteenth of July
the Bastille to which Fernand was to be consigned was stormed by
the people of Paris.

A tremendous shout of jubilation rang through the country and
throughout the world.

Girardin went to the grave of his Jean- Jacques. Gently, overcome
by emotion, he told him of the tremendous event: "You have won,
Jean- Jacques! The bastion of tyranny has fallen. The General Will,
your volonte generate, has smashed the shackles of ten centuries. The
people have taken their fate into their own hands as you taught that
they should and predicted that they would, my friend and Master."

The King's brothers, the Prince de Cond6, the reactionary nobles,
numerous prelates, and the conservative ministers of the Crown fled
across the border. A Te Deum was sung in the church of Notre Dame.
At Lafayette's suggestion the red and blue of the City of Paris were
added to the white of the royal lilies, the old color of the country, and
the red, white, and blue cockade became the token of the new pro-
gressive France, the King had to yield to the people's insistence and
leave his palace in Versailles and move to the capital. There he stood
on the balcony of the Hotel de Ville, his hat decorated with this same
tricolored cockade, and reluctantly showed himself to the cheering
Parisians.

One single, powerful emotion now united the whole country, the
tempestuous emotion of Jean-Jacques.

232

In the town of Senlis, Fernand, whom the liberation of the country
had rescued from his personal danger, was fetched from his house by
a torchlight procession. Another procession fetched Martin. A small
platform had been set up in the cathedral square. There Monsieur
Milliet, the town poet, made a speech. "Descendant of an ancient
noble house," he cried, "with your whole heart and all your fortune
you have joined with us, the people." Then he handed him the tri-
colored cockade, saying, "Friend and pupil of Jean-Jacques, your
virtue and your patriotism make you worthy to wear it" Martin was
brought to the platform and also hailed, and the two of them were
made to embrace each other while the people cheered.

Event crowded on event. In solemn session the National Assembly
proclaimed the rights of man to be tie foundation of the new France.
The feudal system was abolished. Monasteries were seized, ecclesias-
tical property secularized. A National Guard was organized under the
command of Lafayette. The King was forced to stay in Paris with his
family.

Elation and confidence reigned, and the spiritual fathers of the
revolution were not forgotten. For the Encyclopedists, Voltaire was
the moving spirit of the new era; the common people celebrated their
Jean- Jacques. Of the millions who honored him as their patron saint,
many had not read a page of his books; what stirred their emotions
were the rousing slogans he had coined and the inspiring saga of his
life and work.

A new pilgrimage to Ermenonville began. There appeared once
more that student from Arras, Maximilien Robespierre. After being
graduated with honors he had gone into law practice in his home
town. He had attracted attention by his political and literary achieve-
ments; the town had elected him to its academy, and the province of
Artois had sent him as its deputy to the National Assembly. Now he
stood at the grave of his idolized Master, his body rigid with the
fierceness of his resolve, and promised Jean- Jacques to turn his princi-
ples into practice. "To the last, to the last," he vowed.

Another who came to Ermenonville to visit the grave was Baron
Grimm. The Marquis could not deny himself the pleasure of twitting
the Baron in a friendly way. Monsieur de Grimm and the Encyclo-
pedists had called Jean-Jacques's work confused and contradictory,
and now these 'irrational' writings had borne fruit on a vaster scale
than those of any other philosopher. "I am the last person to dispute
our friend's historic achievement," answered Monsieur de Grimm.

233

"But is it not the very inconsistency of Ms principles which attracts
the people? His incoherent picture of the weaknesses and inequalities
of bourgeois society plays on the emotions; the inert masses are more
easily stirred by an appeal to their feelings than to their reason. I
only hope," he concluded on a serious and challenging note, "that
they will remember Voltaire before it is too late. Voltaire's example
alone can prevent excess of emotion from turning Jean-Jacques's
freedom into anarchy."

It appeared that the deputies in the National Assembly shared the
views of Monsieur de Grimm. Thirteen years after the old regime had
denied Voltaire burial in Paris, the National Assembly now decided
to exhume the great man's body from the obscure spot where it was
buried and transfer it to the Pantheon, the temple of fame.

Girardin heard of this decision with divided feelings. Of course it
was gratifying that the desecration of the dead Voltaire should be
rescinded, but he could not stand idly by and see such an honor
overshadow the reputation of his own Jean-Jacques. He acquired
stone blocks from the ruins of the Bastille, and on one of the stones
had a portrait of the Master carved in relief with the inscription:
TThe Creator of Liberated France/ He presented this portrait to the
National Assembly. To Ms great satisfaction, the relief was assigned
the place above the speaker's tribune, the best place in the chamber.
In any case Monsieur de Grimm's sour admonition did nothing to
mar Girardin's pride and pleasure. With all his heart he embraced the
rule of freedom and equality. He was not disturbed at having to sur-
render cherished rights. When the nobility was abolished he deleted
his titles and dignities from the official register with his own hand
and applied for permission to discard his aristocratic baptismal name
Rene-Louis and substitute the name fimile after the title of his
great friend's great novel, of course.

So it was no longer the Marquis Rene-Louis, but Citizen fimile
Girardin who henceforth made the rounds of his park followed by
superintendents and gardeners; and it was no longer the seigneur but
Citizen Girardin, property-owner and farmer, who gave advice to his
citizen-tenants. Hie advice, however, still sounded like commands
and was underlined from time to time by imperious gestures with the
long, flexible cane.

As a matter of fact Girardin now spent far less time in Ermenon-
ville; frequently he went to Paris. There, in his town house, he as-
sembled his friends around him. And he attended many meetings

234

of the great political clubs. He was most often to be seen in the
Rue Honore, where one of these clubs met in the former church of
the Dominicans, or the Jacobins, as they were commonly called.

At Girardin's suggestion a poplar from Jean- Jacques's burial place
a tree of liberty was planted in the courtyard of this Jacobin Club.
^ The Jacobin Club soon became the most influential political society
in Paris, and it was here that Girardin expounded to the new states-
men the doctrines which Jean-Jacques himself had personally con-
fided and explained to him. Girardin stood stiffly at attention on the
platform in front of the bust of Jean- Jacques and the tricolor. He
spoke with authority; he was Jean-Jacques's representative, the frae-
ceptor Galliae.

He made two long speeches in addition to many shorter ones. The
first dealt with the reorganization of the army. He was hard put to
it to find quotations from Jean- Jacques suitable for his technical dis-
quisitions; the result was something to be proud of. It was the speech
of an expert, a philosopher, and a revolutionary. And the Jacobins
were impressed. They applauded vociferously; what was more, they
decided to send copies of the speech to all departments, munici-
palities, and patriotic societies for wider distribution.

Encouraged by this success, Girardin worked out his second speech
with even greater care. It dealt with the volonfe generate, the General
Will. Girardin explained that the General Will was the fundamental
principle of Jean-Jacques's political theory, and therefore he de-
manded that every bill should be submitted to the people and should
become law only when it had been approved by a referendum. It
was a well-grounded, well-formulated speech, with every thesis con-
clusively proved by citations from Jean-Jacques. But this time the
Jacobins remained cool. Citizen Girardin's proposals for the reorgani-
zation of the army had been practical, had made sense; but what he
had to say this time was anemic theory, and if the principles of
Jean- Jacques were to be interpreted in such a pedantic and hair-
splitting way the revolution was done for. They listened to the
speech politely and proceeded with the order of the day.

Girardin was worried. For some time now he had been forced to
note that the deputies were deviating from Jean-Jacques's idea. Some-
one had to remind them of the Master s great principles, and he was
certainly the logical person. But they had listened to him as if he were
any Dupont or Durant.

In fact, as time passed the legislators departed even further from

235

the pure doctrine. Jean- Jacques had expressly declared that nothing
in the existing order should be altered without necessity, nothing
unnecessarily added or subtracted. But the deputies, with savage zeal,
were needlessly turning everything upside down.

Sorrowfully Girardin sat under the willow tree and gazed across the
water at the grave. What could he do? It was no use to talk to the
masses that much he realized. So he addressed himself to individ-
uals, to the leaders, exhorting them to moderation, reminding them of
the General Will. They made some vague reply; no one paid any at-
tention to his advice. He felt like a tedious schoolmaster; for the sake
of his past services they listened to what he had to say, but they did
not take him seriously.

He withdrew from the clubs and the public meetings. He set to
work to expand his speech into an elaborate textbook, On the Neces-
sity for the Ratification of Laws by the General Will. With Monsieur
Gerber as his audience he indulged in bitter accusations against the
Jacobins and plunged more deeply than ever into the study of Jean-
Jacques.

He shut himself off from the world.

Chapter 11 Fly Over the World, Tricolor!

UNLIKE HIS father Fernand found the National Assembly's measures
anything but radical. The representatives of the people struck him
as timid; to his mind they were not proceeding rapidly or ener-
getically enough.

Why were the laws still promulgated from the Tuileries, by the
King? Why did the King still have so much actual power when all
the time it was common knowledge that, if not Louis himself, the
Queen and her advisers were certainly conspiring with foreign courts
against the National Assembly?

And why did the people's representatives not introduce any serious
reforms in the colonies? Why did they limit themselves to vague
proclamations of sympathy for the natives of both the Indies?

236

Again and again, in the midst of the tremendous events in Paris,
Fernand's thoughts turned to Saint-Domingue. Not only for reasons
of political philosophy, nor because he was worried about the estates
he owned there. Rather the memory of Hortense was warm and
strong in him again, more so than for some time past Her family
would speak with scorn and hatred of what was happening here in
Paris. Would Hortense remember him and what he had said to her?
Would she understand what was going on? Wouldn't she, too, think
him ridiculous?

Perhaps he was ridiculous with his hopes and dreams of the happy
consequences of the revolution for his beloved island of Saint-
Domingue. When the National Assembly had solemnly proclaimed
the rights of man he had been sure the tricolor would now fly over
French America too, and that the colored people who constituted
by far the greater part of the population of Saint-Domingue, those
noble savages, who were more than all others the object of Jean-
Jacques's love and care, would be freed from their slavery and dis-
franchisement Yet nothing had happened.

True, a league had been formed in Paris for the emancipation of
the colored people, the Societe des Amis des Noirs, and many men
of influence and importance had joined it But the owners of the big
plantations and other rich gentlemen who owned property in Saint-
Domingue maintained an extremely active agency in Paris, the
Comite Colonial, which proved to be both shrewd and successful.
The members of the Comite warned against radical laws, kept ham-
mering home to the deputies that emancipation of the colored people
would make the Negroes masters of Saint-Domingue, and that the
Spanish and English would not tolerate this but would annex the
whole island. Cleverly and convincingly presented, these arguments
had not failed to make an impression. The National Assembly was
fully occupied with reforms in the motherland. To be sure, it declared
in vague language that human rights were applicable to all, but when
the Governor of Saint-Domingue asked for specific directives regard-
ing the status of the colored people, the Assembly gave such ambigu-
ous answers that everything remained as it was.

Fernand was pained by this halfheartedness.

He had become friendly with Louis-Michel Lepeletier, former
Marquis de Saint-Fargeau, who was a member of the executive com-
mittee of the National Assembly. Lepeletier was only slightly older
than Fernand. With an annual income of over six hundred thousand

237

livres he was one of the richest men in the country. In spite of this
he believed fervently in the tricolor and spoke ardently for the
revolution. He himself had introduced the law abolishing the nobility;
he had played a prominent part in the introduction of the civil con-
stitution for the clergy, which was being violently opposed by the
Vatican; he sponsored every radical reform.

Michel Lepeletier was slightly built and had an unforgettable face:
a very sloping brow, a wide, thin mouth, and large, shining blue eyes
above a powerful aquiline nose. He was a lover of the arts, at home
with the sciences, receptive to everything new. An excellent jurist
and at an early age presiding judge of the tribunal in his province,
he was raiequaled in the clear and logical drafting of complicated
laws and ordinances.

In his way of life he remained the great nobleman. He kept a
luxurious establishment in Paris with a large number of servants,
prized elegant clothes and choice cuisine, had ambitious plays per-
formed on the private stage in his palace. The people usually re-
sented such behavior on the part of the 'ci~devants* the former nobles;
but the Parisians loved their Lepeletier, and when he drove to the
National Assembly in his magnificent carriage they cheered him on
his way.

Strangely enough, in the case of Michel Lepeletier, Fernand too
was attracted by the aristocratic manner which repelled him in others
perhaps because Michel combined the elegance and delicately
ironical wit of the aristocrat with a fanatical belief in progress and
a fierce drive to put the revolutionary ideas into practice.

Lepeletier's entire circle fascinated Fernand. Above all he was
fascinated by Lepeletier's mistress, Eugenie Maillart, the same grace-
ful actress who had once shed tears at Jean- Jacques's grave. She was
still a devoted follower of Jean-Jacques and supported the new order.
But Mademoiselle Maillart, whose enchanting gaiety was an orna-
ment of the Thedtre francais did not care at all for the talk of virtue,
simplicity, austerity. She heartily disliked the many sober-minded,
drearily shabby tribunes in the National Assembly. To her the revo-
lution rneant her Michel Lepeletier, who combined the democratic fire
of the new regime with the wit and grace and elegant refinement of
the old.

Fernand had been having fleeting affairs with pretty women. It
was more than a passing mood which attracted him to Eugenie Mail-

238

lart, but he knew that with all her heart she loved her clever, ugly,
vital, lovable Lepeletier.

Fernand went to his friend Michel with his worries about the West
Indies.

Michel explained to him that there was no sense in enacting aa
unequivocal law emancipating the Negroes, for such a law could be
put into effect only by force, and what troops they had were needed
in the homeland. "So the cause of the colonies must be betrayed!"
Fernand said grimly. Michel put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be
so impetuous," he said. "We can't emancipate the Negroes fust now.
But I have often asked myself whether we couldn't at least grant
equality to the half-breeds, the mulattoes. So far, however, the cit-
izen legislators have not taken to the idea. Monsieur Robinet and
his Comite Colonial are too powerful." An idea struck him. "Aren't
you a close friend of Monsieur Robinet's?" he asked. *lf he withdrew
his opposition we could get the law through. Go to him. Put it to him
that in the long run he won't be able to prevent the emancipation of
the colored people. Promise him, in my name, that if he doesn't stand
in the way of our bill for the half-breeds we will leave him undis-
turbed for a long time so that he can exploit his blacks for the rest
of his life. He is no longer young."

Fernand disliked his friend's opportunism, and the idea of chaffer-
ing with Monsier Robinet was repellent to him.

Strangely enough Monsieur Robinet, who belonged to the privi-
leged and ruling class by virtue of his vast wealth, had supported
the revolution. The overturn, he had volubly explained to Femand,
had merely given visible form to a reality already well established.
For some time the haute bourgeoisie, the upper middle class, had
been the real rulers. Of course the nobles had their privileges and
strutted about in the foreground with their grand titles; but behind
the scenes those commoners who had won riches by their own talents
determined the destinies of the state, and the key public offices were
occupied by men of the bourgeois intelligentsia. Now the men of
privilege had been put to rout and the bourgeoisie had assumed
power in name also that was all.

Fernand was disgusted by this cynical and one-sided interpretation
of the great event. But Lepeletier was a judge of human Mature; he
had frequent dealings with people like Robinet, and his advice was
good. However distasteful approaching Robinet might be, Fernand
felt he ought to do it.

239

Monsieur Robinet had closed his imposing palace in Paris and
moved into an apartment in an unpretentious house. From this point
of vantage he conducted transactions which were both far-reaching
and somehow obscure. He acquired properties confiscated from the
clergy and the emigre nobility, signed contracts with the quarter-
masters of the new and ever growing French army to supply pro-
visions, uniforms, and weapons.

In the plain office in Monsieur Robinet's town apartment, now the
son of one of France's oldest noble families negotiated with one of the
richest commoners in the country the fate of the colored population
of Saint-Domingue.

Monsieur Robinet listened to Fernand attentively. Then, shaking
a finger at him, he said, "What a sly fellow you are, my dear Count.
But the lamb isn't going to catch the wolf this time. We're only ask-
ing one small concession/ you say. 'All we're asking is the franchise
for a few thousand mulattoes.' But you know perfectly well that if
you serve cafe an lait you must be prepared to serve it black as well,
and if we emancipate the half-breeds today, well have the Negroes
demanding their turn tomorrow. No, no, my dear Count, nothing
doing. If we give an inch we may as well shut up shop, and France
has kissed her colonies good-bye."

Fernand sat in gloomy silence. "Now of course you think I'm a
stubborn reactionary," Monsieur Robinet went on. "But you do me an
injustice. I am prepared to compromise. I'm no more reactionary than
your famous liberty-lovers of the Congress in Philadelphia. We too
are willing to grant the colored people their rights, but just like the
gentlemen in British America, not until the turn of the century, not
until the next century." He paused pensively, and all at once, in spite
of his fresh, rosy face, looked very old and wise. "Yes, yes, the rights
of man," he mused. "Oh, they're a fine thing, the rights of man, but
they'll have to bide their time in Saint-Domingue. By the way/' he
went on in a more animated voice, "the silver lining on the horizon,
by which I mean the prospect for human rights in the next century,
is making property in the West Indies a risky investment. I'm busy
disposing of my plantations right now. My advice to you is to do the
same, Count Bregy. I'd be glad to do anything I can to help you."
Fernand thanked him dryly, hostilely, and left.

A delegation of mulattoes from Saint-Domingue arrived in Paris
to plead the cause of the half-breeds before the National Assembly.
The deputation was led by the lawyer Vincent Oge, himself a half-

240

breed. Fernand had met Oge in Cap Frangais at the Cercle des Phila-
delphes and knew him to be an intelligent, well educated, forceful
man.

The Societe des Amis des Noirs was supporting Oge vigorously.
But he and his companions were fobbed off by the representatives
of the people with empty promises, and nothing was done.

At Fernand's instigation Lepeletier invited Oge to dine. Only
Michel, Fernand, and Mademoiselle Maillart were present Lepeletier
urged Oge to speak his mind frankly, and it was strange to see the
naive, rather clumsy mulatto passionately holding forth about de-
mocracy and the plight of his people in this elegant company, while
lackeys ceremoniously served the choicest foods.

Lepeletier presented a bill to the Assembly which without shilly-
shallying granted equal rights to the mulattoes, though not to Ne-
groes. He did so with a heavy heart, he told Fernand, for he feared
that even this reform would result in bloodshed. The bill was passed.

The Marquis de Traversay wrote in alarm to Fernand, urging him
to detain the mulatto Oge in Paris. If Oge returned to Cap Fran9ais,
De Traversay wrote, and if he and his mulattoes invoked this absurd
'equality of rights' and tried to vote in the elections, the white popu-
lation would oppose them with violence.

Oge himself had received threatening letters, but he was deter-
mined to go back. He was looking forward to the fight

Fernand escorted him to his ship. Oge took with him a flag of the
new France, a present from the Societe des Amis des Noirs. Tin tak-
ing the tricolor over with me, J> he said. "And even if the white rabble
shoot it to ribbons or burn it, and me with it I saw it flying."

Full of hope and anxiety, Fernand waited for news from Saint-
Domingue. When it came, it was not what he had hoped but what
Robinet had predicted and Lepeletier had feared. All over the island
on election day the whites had attacked the mulattoes, killing thou-
sands of them. Oge fled to the hills and organized an armed uprising
of the colored people. The well-trained white militia defeated his
following. Oge himself took refuge in the Spanish part of the island.

Worse was to come. Invoking an old treaty, the Spaniards surrend-
ered Oge to the French planters, who cruelly maltreated him and
bad him tried by a so-called court-martial. He was sentenced to death,
and his execution was made the occasion of a public holiday. From
all over the island, men, women, and children came to cheer as they
watched the mulatto being broken on the wheel with protracted

241

refinements o grisly torture, 'as an example to the Negroes.' A mem-
ber of the Cercle des PMladelph.es wrote to Paris: 'Since the execu-
tion of Damiens, who tried to murder Louis the Fifteenth, French-
men have not indulged in such a hideous spectacle/

Femand was in Ermenonville when the news came. In helpless fury
he rode over to Latour. He found Robinet with Gilberte and Mathieu.
"There you are," he threw at him. "This is what you and your Comite
Colonial have done.''

Monsieur Robinet answered coolly that the National Assembly was
to blame for the violence and bloodshed inasmuch as it had passed
the foolish decree despite the warnings of the Comite. "What I'm
afraid of now is that in Paris they'll commit more inanities and try
io enforce the law instead of repealing it. If that happens, every-
thing will go to pieces over there. You ought to have sold out in time,
my dear Count. Now I fear our day is done in the West Indies."

**You are the last person who ought to scoff at me," said Fernand
wildly. Monsieur Robinet shrugged his shoulders. "I wrote to Cap
Fran<?ais today/' he answered, "urging moderation. But letters have
no effect. You have close and powerful friends on the island, my
dear Count. You have influence. Go over there. See what you can
achieve in person." And with offensive mockery he concluded, "I
foresee a black future for our friends."

Monsieur Robinet's shallow taunts struck home. More than once
Fernand had considered going to Saint-Domingue. He had heard from
Hortense. In her childish script she wrote that she was sad not to
be able to talk with him about the ugly happenings on the island;
everyone had a different opinion, and she herself no longer knew
what to think. She was frightened; she longed to have him near.
Monsieur Robinet's words aroused in him a new and violent desire
to go back to Hortense. To be sure, the storm that was breaking over
their heads in Saint-Domingue was the outcome of their own con-
ceit and stupidity. But could he leave Hortense in danger because
her father was a stiff-necked aristocrat?

Gilberte was watching him attentively. He thought he could detect
that tiny smile on her face. "You are right, monsieur/' he said, and
drew himself up. **I shall go to Saint-Domingue."

Robinet was startled. He had not expected to be taken seriously.
The fool was quite capable of sailing off to that hell, and then what a
dance his Gilberte would lead him! "It was only a silly joke, of
course," he said hastily. "You couldn't do a thing there. You would

242

only endanger yourself and confuse matters still more. Stay here in
France. Try to persuade Lepeletier and his friends not to pull any
more blunders in the National Assembly. That is the best thing you
can do to help your friends in Saint-Domingue."

In Paris, Fernand observed with grim satisfaction that Oge had
achieved in death what he had been unable to achieve in life. Paris
was aroused by the events in the West Indies. The Amis des Noirs
held large meetings. Pictures of the martyr Oge and his horrible end
were displayed everywhere. A play was written about his noble life
and shameful death, and successfully staged.

Without much urging by Fernand, Lepeletier procured the pas-
sage of a bill considerably extending the rights of the colored people.

Fernand wished ardently that the National Assembly would send
him to the West Indies to put the new law into execution. But when
he suggested this, Lepeletier immediately and categorically refused.
The law, he explained, was simply intended as a warning to the
aristocratic planters; it was purely academic and could not be en-
forced without an army.

"Send me over, Michel!" Femand pleaded unreasonably. "I wouldn't
think of it," Lepeletier answered. "I won't let you go to your death.
A man like you would only make things worse. What we need over
there is a hardheaded politician, not a philosopher."

Fernand was crushed: after all he had been through, his friend's
still thinking of him as a boy and a dreamer was like a slap in the face.
"And in the National Assembly you described the lot of the colored
people with a sympathy worthy of Jean-Jacques," Fernand said
bitterly. *1 wanted to get the law enacted," Lepeletier patiently ex-
plained, "I never believed it could be enforced."

*1 am going to Saint-Domingue, unofficially if necessary!" Fernand
persisted with childish obstinacy.

"Be reasonable!" Lepeletier said. *You know yourself your impulse
to go isn't only due to grief over Og6, or to mere philosophy either.
You're thinking of that girl you courted over there. Don't go in for
hollow gallantry! Don't travel thousands of miles and expose yourself
unnecessarily to danger to stand by a lady who can certainly escape
more easily without your Tielp,' and who has in all probability reached
safety long ago. Don't be such a ci-devant, Fernand!" he concluded,
emphasizing every word.

Fernand felt he was being ridiculed, but he also sensed that Michel
was right, right in a much deeper sense than Monsieur Robinet. And

243

yet he rebelled emotionally against the 'cowardice' that was expected
of him.

Mademoiselle Maillart entered the room. "Our friend is unhappy,*"
Michel informed her, "because I won't let him go and be killed in
the West Indies." He had noticed how deeply his words had wounded
Fernand, and decided to tell him now the news that he had meant to
keep till later. "Soon, Fernand," he consoled him, "you will have the
opportunity to influence the destiny of Saint-Domingue here in Paris
much more decisively than you could over there."

Fernand looked blank. "He doesn't understand," Michel told
Mademoiselle Maillart with a smile. "He is too modest." Then he
explained: "You know there will be a new election shortly, and
Eugenie thinks that in the new legislative assembly there ought to
be room not only for virtuous commoners but also for a few ci-devants
who cherish the new ideals but who speak and think with the old
good grammar and logic and act with the old good manners." Fernand
had risen, too moved to speak, and Michel went on, "Yes, my friends
and I have suggested putting you up as a candidate and, my dear
Citizen Girardin, I am sure you will be elected deputy."

Fernand had blushed deeply with surprise and joy. He felt pride
that, in spite of everything, his friend thought him fit to be one of
the legislators. But he was even more deeply moved by another con-
sideration. Michel would not have proposed him without being sure
he was acceptable to the people, that his activities in Senlis had won
their confidence. Fernand could not have imagined a finer compli-
ment The people did not reject him; they accepted him as a brother.

"What do you think, Eugenie?" Michel asked the actress. "Our
Fernand will make a good legislator, will he not?" "Oh, excellent,"
Mademoiselle Maillart smilingly replied. "A man of flesh and blood
among all these Brutuses or Lycurguses."

244

Chapter 12 Loyalty, but to Whom?

SENSATIONAL NEWS spread all over the country: the King had at-
tempted to flee, he and his family, under a false name and using
forged passports. He had tried to reach the northeastern frontier in-
tending to return triumphantly to Paris at the head of foreign troops
and to drive out the National Assembly. But his flight had been
a ludicrous failure. The patriotic postmaster of a tiny village had
recognized the King from his portrait on the banknotes, and with
the help of a few other worthy citizens had promptly detained the
carriage. Patriotic virtue had frustrated the schemes of the ci-
devants. Louis had been brought back to Paris, and now he and his
family were literally being held captive in the Tuileries. Sentries
were posted all over the palace, even outside the bedchambers of
the King and Queen.

This tremendous event widened the breach between the citizens
of the old and of the new France. The many who had not yet made
up their minds now had to take a stand. Did they owe loyalty to
the nation, or to the King who, for selfish motives, had planned to
open the country's gates to the enemy?

The former Count Courcelles was among those who now found
themselves up against this thorny problem. Mathieu was progres-
sive; he had welcomed the summoning of the States-General and
the storming of the Bastille and he had condemned the behavior
of those of his peers who had fled across the border. They had be-
trayed their country and left their King in the lurch. But when the
King was compelled to sanction actions which he clearly disap-
proved of, and was forced even to commit them himself, Mathieu
began to see the emigres* point of view. They were right, the King
had been overpowered; not the people, but a pack of ambitious mal-
contents, had taken over the government of France. Every court in
Europe was actively aiding the emigres who were assembling at
the frontier, on the German side of the Rhine, at Coblenz. A large

245

army was being equipped to enforce the restoration of the absolute
monarchy in France,

And now the King had tried to take his place at the head of the
emigres; he had given them and their aspirations his approval.
Mathieu's was a calm temperament, but his blood boiled at the
thought that the will of the Most Christian King had been frustrated
by a petty postmaster. One of the rabble had been able to force the
ruler of the world's oldest kingdom to turn back ignominiously.

Pathetic details of the King's return journey came out. He and
his family had had to drive slowly along dusty roads in the terrible
heat, slowly and yet more slowly, and from far and wide crowds
had come to stare at the King who had tried to betray his people.
Paris had sent officials to escort him. They crowded into the
cramped space of his coach, and the King and Queen had to swal-
low the dust of the roads and breathe the sweaty exhalations of
their guards and listen to the abuse of onlookers. An enormous
crowd awaited the King's arrival in Paris. The National Guards were
drawn up in a double line; they stood at attention with arms reversed
as at a funeral. There was a portentous silence, for it had been
announced that anyone cheering the King would go to the pillory;
anyone abusing him, to prison.

Mathieu could imagine how the proud and beautiful Queen must
have suffered from these humiliations. It was said that her hair had
turned white during the four days of their pitiful return journey.

What should Mathieu do? Since his wife was the granddaughter
of the influential Robinet, who was on good terms with the deputies,
he was hardly in any personal danger if he stayed in the country.
If he left France, however, he was no better than a beggar; by law
his and Gilberte's properties would be confiscated. There were many
bitter tales of the emigres' wretchedness and their beggar's pride.
And once he crossed the border he could not return to France on
pain of death.

But could he stay here? Had he not sworn allegiance to his King?
Was it not his duty to join the army of Emigres who were preparing
to restore the King to his rights?

Escaping from France had been difficult enough before, but now
the frontier guards had been reinforced. Flight with Gilberte and
the child would be risky. Mathieu wavered. But he concealed his
thoughts and doubts from Gilberte, intending to decide the prob-
lem for himself.

246

Monsieur Robinet, however, read Ms mind

Monsieur Robinet himself had no intention of leaving France. He
felt secure, and it would be a shame to abandon his prosperous busi-
ness affairs. On the other hand the failure of the King's attempted
escape showed that not only Paris but all France was on the side
of the revolutionaries. The other crowned heads of Europe would
have to recognize that fact. They would have to take steps to protect
themselves against the fate of their cousin Louis. A war between
democratic France and the absolute monarchs of Europe was conse-
quently unavoidable, and Monsieur Robinet wanted to play it safe
in this war. So he hoped Mathieu would side with the emigres. For
in case of a revolutionary victory Monsieur Robinet would have to
his credit his loyalty in sticking it out at home; in case the Royalists
won he could point to the fact that his granddaughter's husband
had helped fight for this victory.

Naturally he did not mention any of these considerations to Gil-
berte. But he did tell her that after the recent events he would
fully understand it if Mathieu joined his friends outside the country.

Gilberte herself had been aware that her husband was deliberat-
ing some such plan.

She had honestly done her best to decide where she herself stood
in relation to the happenings of the past two years. Many things
repelled her, but then again the force of events and perhaps also
Fernand's passionate enthusiasm had swept her along. When she
talked to Mathieu about public affairs, which she seldom did, she
could not help noticing how much of Jean-Jacques's philosophy she
had made her own in spite of all her mocking. Moreover she herself
came from the people; she knew from experience how hard a Me
without privileges was. It did her heart good to see that the artificial
walls between the classes had been broken down, that the whole
nation was One People. From time to time, of course, she felt ridic-
ulous. For, renouncing her dearest wish, she had embarked on the
adventure of this marriage in order to acquire privileges for herself
and her child, and no sooner was this achieved than privileges were
wiped out and little Marie-Sidonia was a 'citizen' like any other.
It was remarkable how Providence had thumbed its nose at her and
how in the end the fool's wisdom of old Jean-Jacques had been jus-
tified. The King's recent flight and capture had greatly excited her.
She felt a rather quizzical affection for the slow, good-natured King
his pretty, amiable Marie Antoinette who possessed all the

247

qualities which Fernand abhorred. And if the people treated even
the King and Queen so rudely, what risks might not Mathieu, the
child, and she herself be running? Not only had she lost her privi-
leges, she was again one of the disfranchised.

She had turned the matter over and over in her mind. Though
not timid, she did not wish to see Mathieu and the child exposed
to needless suffering. On the other hand she was reluctant to leave
the country and run away from the great events. Fernand would
rightly regard her as weak and fainthearted.

So when Monsieur Robinet advised flight she took her time before
answering. "If Mathieu suggests emigrating/' she said at last, "you
will come with us, of course, won't you. Grandfather?"

This was not at all what Monsieur Robinet had in mind. He had
been dreaming of having Gilberte and the child to himself without
the chilly presence of Mathieu. "I said nothing about myself, dear
child," he said, "nor about you and Marie-Sidonia."

"I shouldn't think of letting Mathieu go alone," Gilberte answered
promptly and defiantly.

"I would think of it, my child," Monsieur Robinet said kindly. "If
Mathieu goes, he goes to war you must realize that. And it's no
longer the custom, nor is it advisable, for women to follow their men
into battle." He put it bluntly: "If he feels obliged to cross the
Rhine then if I were you I would neither hinder him nor offer to
go with him." "You mean I am to let him go alone?" Gilberte re-
peated incredulously. "He himself could scarcely ask anything else
of you," Robinet answered. "To cross the frontier with a woman
and a small child is a difficult and dangerous business."

Shortly afterward Mathieu did in fact suggest leaving France.
Though prepared for this question, Gilberte, normally so staunch
and steady, was thrown into confusion. Marie-Sidonia was in the
room. Well-behaved in her grown-up clothes, she went up and
down the room pulling a toy lamb behind her. "I can understand
your wanting to join the army, Mathieu," Gilberte said at last. "Rut
what is to become of us of me and the child?" He looked at her
uncomprehendingly; it had never occurred to him that she could
let him go by himself. She added, "Dare we expose the child to the
danger of crossing the frontier?"

Her words had a ring of uncertainty, and Mathieu knew that her
argument was half pretext. He looked at her with more sadness than

248

reproach. For all his love and faithful devotion, he realized, he had
been unable to win her.

At that look she felt choked with pain. At the same time she
thought with melancholy irony, *No one is ordering him to go. If he
cares more for his wretched King than for me, then let him go. I
won't hold him back. I didn't hold the other one back either/ She
was bitter, defiant. But the pain did not diminish, and since he
failed to reproach her she reproached herself. She had not been
granted the strength to love not this man, not even the other.

Mathieu quickly took refuge in his good manners. "What is your
opinion, madame?" he asked her. "Do you advise me to go?" And
with an effort he added, "Alone?"

"If you must go, Mathieu * Gilberte faltered.

Mathieu left a few days later, in the simplest of clothing and with
forged papers.

249

PART FOUR

THOSE THAT ARE LUKEWARM WE WILL EXCORIATE
THE WIDOW ROUSSEAU

NICOLAS RIDES AGAIN
THE CONSPIRACY OF THE KINGS

A BITTER JOY
SINISTER GUESTS

MAIDEN SPEECH

NO FALSE HUMANITY!

LA TERREUR! LA TERREUR!

THE SUSPECTS

Better is a youth of humble birth and wise
than an old Icing who is a fool unable to take
care of himself. For through a rebellion the
youth may come to rale, even though he is
born poor in his country. I saw all the people
flocking to the side of such a youth, who was
to stand in the old Icing's place.

ECCLESIASTES

The soldiers of the French Republic felt they
alone were reasonable beings. In the eyes of
these Frenchmen, the inhabitants of the rest of
Europe, who were fighting in order to keep
their chains, were either pathetic fools or knaves
who were allowing themselves to be bought
by the despots.

STENDHAL

Chapter 1 Those that are Lukewarm
We Will Excoriate

LIKE MANY other towns, Senlis had its Jacobin Club on the Paris
model. In it the politics of the district were decided. President of
the club was Martin Catrou.

^ As often as he could he went to Paris for inspiration and advice.
For there was one man there who had grasped the seemingly con-
tradictory teachings of the Master in all their ramifications and
could translate them into living politics. This man was a member
of the National Assembly, but it was through the Jacobin Club that
he preached his doctrines and wielded his influence, and because
of him the club was now almost as powerful as the National As-
sembly itself. This man was Maximilien Robespierre, the student
who had visited Jean- Jacques shortly before his death. When Robes-
pierre's crystalline, incisive voice rang out, when he made one of
his speeches burning with icy logic, then the bare, ugly church in the
Rue Honore where the Jacobins met became for Martin the heart and
shrine of France.

This slight, meticulously dressed man whom Martin so intensely
admired had few personal friends. With his followers he was distant-
ly polite. But now that Jean- Jacques was dead and buried on the
island of the tall poplars many of the most fiery patriots, including
Martin himself, saw Robespierre as the preacher of the true gospel,
the high priest, the apostle of the creed. Had Jean-Jacques himself
been addressing the Jacobins he could not have expounded his
principles with more conviction than Robespierre, nor more convin-
cingly applied them to the political problems of the day.

Martin sought to acquaint his Jacobins in Senlis with the ideas of
Maximilien Robespierre. Like Robespierre he himself combined a
fanatical faith in Jean-Jacques's teachings with a coldly logical drive
to pursue ideas remorselessly to their conclusions. Like Robespierre
he despised all halfheartedness and halfway measures and he shared

253

the other man's eternally vigilant distrust of the former nobles, the
ci-devants. He warned his people in Senlis that, in addition to the
army which the fugitive aristocrats were assembling against the
people of France, there were countless enemies still left in the coun-
try itself. Until the old order was torn out by the roots the goals of
the revolution would not be attained.

Martin did not, however, deliver lectures with the icy elegance
of the great Jacobin of Paris. He used pungent popular phrases,
addressing his patriots of Senlis in their own language and interpret-
ing Jean- Jacques's arguments with crude vigor.

Fernand, who showed up at the club from time to time, had his
doubts about Martin's speeches. Martin quoted Jean- Jacques all right,
but he gave the Master's words a dangerous meaning. There were
already too many people who had let the new order go to their
heads and who could not understand that law and justice still ex-
isted, that they could not do as they pleased. Martin's speeches
drove them still further along the road to irresponsible acts.

Once after Martin had made a particularly radical speech he said
to Fernand, "I suppose you think all this is way off?" "Yes," Fernand
answered, "I have my doubts, but I can't sum them up in a few
words. It's a pity we've seen so little of each other lately," he added
politely. With a touch of malice Martin replied, "But you've got
that Lepeletier of yours." Fernand was pleased that Martin was
jealous of Michel. "I'd like nothing better than to have a good talk
with you," he answered warmly. Martin invited him to supper.

The Catrous' house was shabby. Martin lived and worked in three
rooms, together with his mother, his wife, and their child. The place
smelled of cooking and humanity, the child was screaming. The
food was prepared without love or artistry. "You must be content
with what common people have to offer, Citizen Girardin," said
Madame Jeanne.

Martin ate hastily, indifferently, without manners. "You can speak
freely," he told Fernand. "Jeanne knows we are old friends." "Yes,"
said Jeanne and turned her hard, expressive face to Femand with
a look that was not precisely friendly.

Fernand's heart was heavy with anxiety at this time. Bad news
had come from Saint-Domingue. The whites had refused to accept
the decisions of the National Assembly and the Negroes and mulat-
toes had united. Turmoil and revolution raged on the island. The
plantations in the north of Saint-Domingue, where the De Traver-

254

says had their estates, had been plundered, destroyed, burnt to the
ground. Many whites had been killed. Hortense and the Marquis
had supposedly fled into Spanish territory, but the reports sounded
vague and it was a bad sign that there had been no news from the
Traversays themselves for so long.

It was of these oppressive matters that Fernand spoke. Now,
when it was too late, he declared bitterly, the National Assembly
had decided to make a stand, and instead of at least sending troops
to restore order they were actually thinking of repealing the Colo-
nial Law so that the colored people would lose their rights again.
"I'm not acquainted with conditions in Saint-Domingue/' said Mar-
tin. "Few people are. Why don't you go and restore order there
yourself ?" he challenged Fernand. "You are known there. And your
friend Lepeletier should be able to get you full powers to act as
you see fit/*

Fernand's expressive face twitched. So Martin regarded his activ-
ities here in France as superfluous. "My friend Lepeletier," he re-
torted triumphantly, "feels I should be serving the revolution better
by staying here. He wants me to stand for election to the next
National Assembly."

Lepeletier was well thought of even by the Jacobins, and Martin
was surprised. What Fernand had just told him excited him; patches
of red appeared on his forehead. The women also looked up. There
was a short silence. Then, instead of making a direct reply, Martin
observed, "It will be a good thing when the old Assembly is dis-
solved. It hasn't achieved much." "All the same," answered Fernand,
"when it is dissolved it will have produced a constitution based
upon the rights of man." "What little good there is to that constitu-
tion/* Martin said, 'lias been achieved by four or five men against
the opposition of the remaining twelve hundred." "Aren't you being
hard on the twelve hundred?" Fernand asked. "Twelve hundred
Jeans and Jacques's don't make one Jean- Jacques, you'll grant me
that," taunted Martin.

Widow Catrou looked on admiringly while her son spoke his
mind to the fine gentleman, and a thin cackle of laughter emerged
from her puckered, toothless old mouth. Jeanne, too, gave her hus-
band a look of satisfaction and respect. "May I give you a little more
wine, Citizen Girardin?" she asked in her harsh voice. Fernand read
distrust and hostility in her intense eyes.

Martin went on eating. "This doesn't apply to you, nor to Lepele-

255

tier/' he observed with his mouth full, "but you can't deny there
are too many el-decants In the National Assembly the sort that
with the best will in the world remain the slaves of their birth,
their money, their grand titles. When they address each other as
'citizen' it sounds like another way of saying 'count' or 'marquis.'
WeVe seen the way that Lafayette of yours has been flirting with
the ci-devants, and when the people themselves decide to reach for
the rights of man he gives the order to shoot."

Madame Jeanne and the old woman set about washing the dishes.
Martin and Fernand sat over the wine.

"I tell you,'' Martin resumed, "not a single one of the laws passed by
this Assembly has any teeth in it. The despotic old regime clapped
four hundred thousand people in prison year after year. We nearly
had a taste of that ourselves, you and I. And year after year fifteen
thousand were hanged. This National Assembly has abolished the
death penalty and let all its enemies flit across the border. The King
himself almost got away."

Jeanne looked up from her dishwashing, scornfully awaiting Fer-
nand's reply. "I'm not a member of the Assembly," he said half
jokingly.

"No one said anything about you," Martin returned. "And as a
candidate you can count on my support. But don't fool yourself.
The new Assembly isn't going to make a clean sweep either, nor a
real revolution. That must come from elsewhere, from below. It
must be made by the people, in the clubs. And there's where it will
be made."

This was exactly what Fernand himself said when arguing with
the moderates among his friends; but now he contradicted Martin:
" 'Overthrow nothing of the existing order unnecessarily' Jean-
Jacques wrote that, in case it interests you," he said, and was an-
noyed with himself because the words sounded as though his father
had spoken them. "But it is necessary," Martin answered hotly.
"And I know someone, and so do you, who could prove to you why
it is so, and in Jean-Jacques's own words." Fernand shrugged.

Martin regretted having been so brusque. When he was with
Fernand he always behaved like a boy with a chip on his shoulder.
Yet he respected Fernand and was fond of him. It was something
for a man who was born to be the seigneur of Ermenonville to em-
brace the cause of the common people so honestly and courageously.

Martin walked Fernand home and in his clumsy way did his best

256

to show affection for him. And as a result of these few moments of
awkward friendliness Fernand caught a glimpse, behind the Jacobin
leader Catrou, of the old Martin, his boyhood chum.

But that did not take away the sting of truth from Martin's words.
Martin had spoken not for himself alone but for everybody. The
King's flight had aroused fresh suspicion of the ci-devants among
the whole people. The hostility of Citizen Jeanne Catrou was not
the hostility of one Jeanne but of all the Jeannes. Fernand was still
an alien. The people would never accept him as their brother.

To Femand's sorrow and anger, the National Assembly, shortly
before its dissolution, actually did repeal Lepeletier's law emancipat-
ing the slaves, and replaced it by ineffectual recommendations whose
net effect was once more to deprive the colored people of their
rights. He was gripped by a burning eagerness to make good this
disgrace. If he should actually be elected he would try to transmit
to the other legislators his own ardent desire for justice.

But he was less and less able to believe he would win the election.

Lepeletier tried to build up his confidence. Was not he himself, in
his whole bearing and manner of life, far more remote from the
Jacobins than Femand? Yet in spite of that the masses accepted
him as one of themselves. Written and oral reports from the depart-
ment of the Oise showed Lepeletier that people there had genuine
confidence in Fernand.

But Martin's doubts affected Fernand more than Lepeletier's faith,
and Fernand remained despondent.

All the greater was his joy when he was elected. So the keen-eyed
petits "bourgeois of Senlis and of the villages and hamlets round
about believed in him! Out of twenty candidates they had chosen
him! Martin was wrong: the people did accept him as their brother!

Chapter 2 The Widow Rousseau

ALL THIS TIME Nicolas and Therese had been living in Plessis.
During those last years of the old regime Nicolas had sat around

257

the inns of Plessis and Dammartin holding forth in a caustic, arro-
gant manner. He knew the world, and his drinking companions
enjoyed listening to his amusing, vicious talk. Whenever Therese
received her annuities he went off to Paris for two or three days;
the miserable pittance which an ungrateful world doled out to the
wife of its greatest philosopher lasted no longer than that.

The people of Plessis, except for those who drank with Nicolas,
were not overfond of their new neighbors. They disapproved of
Therese's living with the fellow who had done in her husband. The
women called their children to them when they encountered her.
Nicolas swore and threatened; Therese remained indifferent. She
was quite satisfied with the way of the world now that she had
Nicolas living under her roof as her homme de confiance.

Once every month she went to the cemetery at Ermenonville to
visit her mother; every week she went to the grave on the little
island to bring flowers to her husband. She tended his canaries con-
scientiously, gathered chickweed for them, and when they died,
bought new ones.

The people of Ermenonville also grumbled. But gradually they
grew accustomed to the sight of the aging woman making her
slow, silent pilgrimages to her dead and then very likely dropping
in at the Auberge Jean- Jacques to order an omelette and a glass of
the dark-yellow wine, to feed the animals as her dear departed had
done before her, and to conduct a sluggish conversation with Good-
man Maurice.

Once while Nicolas was in Paris the parish priest of Plessis came
to Therese with some sharp words concerning her illicit union with
Monsieur Montretout This alarmed her, and when Nicolas had slept
off the effects of his Parisian carouse she timorously suggested that
they marry. Nicolas flew into a terrible rage and struck her with his
crutch.

Two days later the canaries had disappeared. Therese thought
of Lady, the red setter, and how terribly upset Jean- Jacques had
been. What a good thing it was that he could never be upset again.
Later she asked Nicolas for permission to buy some new canaries.
"It's enough for you to take flowers to the late lamented," he
growled.

When the stupid people stormed the Bastille, Nicolas was out-
raged. He sympathized with the aristocrats. He had always got on
better with the grand gentlemen than with the canaille, and it was

258

a personal vexation that his powerful patron, the Prince de Conde,
had thought it best to take a trip abroad, Of course the trip would
not be a long one. Mob government couldn't last; the rascals
would soon see how foolish they had been; the ringleaders would
be hanged and quartered by the thousands. "No mercy for the rab-
ble!" he trumpeted.

But the emigres showed no sign of returning, and in the inn at
Plessis people began objecting to his harangues. The idiots there
parroted the old rubbish about the rights of man and called him a
toady. The world was getting stupider, drearier, duller every day,
and this goddammed rabble-ridden country made him want to puke.
He wished he could have gone back to London, but how was he to
scrape along there, martyr of the equestrian art that he was? Here
at least the annuities came in regularly from Geneva.

He still went to Paris now and then. In the vicinity of the Palais
Royal he loafed around in obscure taverns with like-minded cronies,
the lackeys and hairdressers of the ci-devants, the waiters who had
lost their jobs in fashionable eating places as a result of the new
order. Paris had gone to the dogs. People went around on roller
skates instead of on horseback, and in place of the exquisitely de-
praved pleasures of the good old days people amused themselves
with a children's game called jou-jou.

When he was in Paris, Therese sat alone in Sieur Bessat's shabby
little house. The wind that blew incessantly over this flat country-
side rustled through the broken thatch. There she sat, stout, idle,
looking older than her years. She breathed heavily, her enormous
bosom heaving a lourdaude, a clumsy, doltish creature, the people
called her. She dozed, cheeks sagging, mouth half open, heavy lids
drooping over her eyes. Then the wind made her start out of her
doze. Her hands were cold. She fetched herself a muff. She
would have liked to light a fire but she shrank from such extrava-
gance, fearing harsh words from her Nicolas.

With a faint sigh she got up to dust the house once more, for the
wind repeatedly covered the wretched furniture with a fresh layer
of dust. She looked over her clothes one of her favorite occupa-
tions. They lay in chests, hung in closets: short skirts, petticoats of
Vaucluse linen, a black taffeta coat, a pair of silk gloves, a pair of
everyday gloves; above all, a collection of bonnets of linen, lace,
and muslin, with and without ribbons, all in vivid colors. Fondly
she surveyed the clothes. She had had them a long time, had se-

259

lected them with loving care. Many men had cast hungry glances
at her when she wore them. Now they were too tight for her, but
there had been no skimping on material; they could be let out, and
let out again. She took out a dress and began sewing. And she
thought of the materials that were then in fashion, striped f lorence,
'solid-colored pekin, sicilienne, and nankin, and pretty tunics a la
Zulime, worn with gilets a la Turque. She pondered what she should
do now. Should she get her warmly lined, comfortable house shoes
like those her lamented Jean- Jacques had worn? Or should she dress
up so that she would not look so slovenly when her Colas came
back?

She dressed up slowly, painstakingly, even used a little make-
up. Then she pulled one of the rush chairs up to the table; she did
not dare to use Jean- Jacques's wide, comfortable armchair that
was reserved for her Colas. She sat down, propped her head on her
hands, and waited. She had learned to wait, had spent the greater
part of her life in waiting. Waiting was not unpleasant; experience
had taught her that in the end the expected event, the expected
man came.

Around her was the familiar furniture. There were the beds with
the blue-and-white covers. Even the piano was still there. Nicolas
had wanted to sell it, but because the price offered had been so low
and because he loved her so much he had finally kept it. The canaries
were there no longer, but their cage was, and the engravings still
hung on the walls the lame beggar, and the Forest of Montmorency
which she knew so well, though Montmorency itself was now called
Emile in honor of her Jean-Jacques. And the chest was there too,
with the writings lying inside. One document had been added to
them a letter in which the Prince de Conde assured his dear
Nicolas Montretout what an outstanding equestrian he was.

She sat at the table and waited, dozed off, and waited again.
Things became blurred in her mind. The furniture had always been
the same and she no longer knew whether she was in Paris in the
Rue Platriere, or in the pavilion at Ermenonville or in Sieur Bessafs
house in Plessis. Once she started up, thinking she heard her mother
calling her, but it was only the wind. Then she began to wonder
whether she should not give her husband the catheter, and Jean-
Jacques and Nicolas merged into one person and she no longer
knew whether to rub his back or pass the catheter for him. She
had been looking after someone all her life. It had become a cher-

260

ished habit, and she would feel deprived should she no longer have
to do so.

She could not buy herself any of the pretty new materials. Nicolas
would curse and scold and beat her if she so much as hinted at
anything of the sort. But she did not need dresses. Everyone called
her a lourdaude and said she was simple-minded. Maybe she was,
but she had not done so badly. She, the lourdaude, had hooked the
two most famous men in France - Jean-Jacques, about whom they
were making even more of a fuss now than during his lifetime, and
Nicolas, who had had the finest horse-dealing business in France, his
famous Tattersall, and who was run after by the fine gentlemen as
much as Jean-Jacques had been. Everybody in France had been
wild about these men of hers, but it was she who had had them,
and both men had loved her, and one had killed the other for her
sake; and she had had fine gentlemen, too, and life was good, and
she waited. Nor did she ever wait in vain. He always came back.
She smiled, a sly, stupid, happy smile and everyone and everything
became a blur and she waited and the thatch on the roof rustled in
the wind.

Chapter 3 Nicolas Rides Again

NICOLAS AND THEBESE received a visit from a man who had dropped
out of sight for years. It was Citizen Frangois Renoux, the erstwhile
Sergeant Renoux, Therese's half-brother.

He had become quite shaky; it obviously cost him quite an effort
to behave like his old, noisy, confident self. But he managed it

He talked about the times. He was very much in accord with
them, was wholeheartedly a revolutionary. He had always cherished
his dear brother-in-law Jean- Jacques's ideals, had even been one of
the first to fight for them over in the forests of America against the
mercenaries and the bribed wild Indians of the British tyrants.

While he rattled on he was looking around the shabby house.

261

With satisfaction he saw that in spite of everything the familiar
furniture was still there, above all the familiar chest "Is there any-
thing left in it?" he could not restrain himself from asking. "Yes/'
Nicolas replied scornfully, "a letter from the Prince de Conde to your
humble servant." But Therese, seeing her brother s disappointment,
assured him proudly, "It's all still there, all the papers. The Marquis
tried to pinch them from us, but Nicolas spoiled his game for him."
"That's what IVe always said, our Nicolas has a good head on his
shoulders," said Francois appreciatively. "Is that what you've come
all this way to tell me, you old scoundrel?" Nicolas asked.

Whereupon Frangois drew himself up and made a speech: "You
have not behaved very well to me, my dears, neither you, my sweet
sister, nor you, my let's say, brother-in-law. But I'm not one to
bear grudges. I regard myself as the head of the family and I
promised our dear mother on her deathbed to look after you. I have
just visited our dear mother s grave and I felt I could tell her: You
can rely on Sergeant Frangois Renoux; he keeps his promises,
rain or shine."

"Leave out the trimmings," said Nicolas truculently, "and tell us
in the King's French what's the trick card you've got up your
sleeve."

Frangois suppressed him with a sidelong look of dignified con-
tempt and proceeded, Tm well acquainted with the Deputy Chap-
laine. I think I may call myself his friend. What a man! A faithful
priest of Nature and Reason, a genuine disciple of our good Jean-
Jacques. The Jacobins are proud to number him among their leaders.
He used to be a Capuchin monk, as you know. He was vicar-general
to the Bishop of Blois, but he shed the old prejudices as easily as a
snake its skin and today he philosophizes with the best. He's fond
of literature, wild about Jean-Jacques, and would be delighted to
meet Jean- Jacques's widow. He's read in the Confessions about her
simplicity, loyalty, and virtue and he has also heard a great deal
of praise of her from me."

Nicolas grinned "You see before you," he said, "a man who has
been on good terms with plenty of fine gentlemen, even with princes
of the blood, and has helped them into their saddles. Do you think
I'm going to run after a lousy deputy of the canaille? After a Capu-
chin? All Capuchins stink."

"I wouldn't blow so hard if I were you, my dear brother-in-law,"
Frangois retorted "No Jew would give a sou for your erstwhile

262

princes, but this ci-devant Capuchin can spirit up money with his little
finger. I wouldn't say from the looks of things that money's been
falling like snow around here. Maybe a snow storm will start if
Widow Rousseau^is willing to tickle Legislator Chaplaine's chin/'

"I can see you're hoping to squeeze a tip out of Chaplaine by
pimping for my Therese," Nicolas said contemptuously, "and Im
supposed to sit here rubbing my poor arse all by myself. No dice."

"What low thoughts!" Sergeant Francis replied. "I know the kind
of fellow you are. Naturally, I described you to Legislator Chaplaine
in as glowing colors as my conscience permitted. Citizen Chaplaine
is looking forward to the visit not only of Jean- Jacques's widow but
of her trusty business manager/*

So Nicolas and Therese traveled to Paris at Sergeant Frangoiss
expense to be introduced to Legislator Chaplaine.

He proved to be a fat, grubby, jovial man. His shirt was open at
the collar, revealing his strong neck. His sturdy legs were clothed
in a pair of rough trousers. From his father, who had been chef
to a rich abbot, Chaplaine had inherited a taste for good food. In fact
he was addicted to all forms of good living. He surrounded himself
with costly things: his house was full of fine paintings by well-known
masters, of precious glassware and all kinds of exquisite bric-a-brac.
For the relics which he had learnt to venerate in his early youth
he now substituted choice curiosities; above all, literary items
manuscripts and costly old books. He was filled with a greed for
life and devoured knowledge, art, women, and succulent dishes. His
imagination was riotous. He was always on the alert for adventure.
He had unearthed a conspiracy on the part of some emigre noble-
men whose agents met secretly in Chateau Bagatelle. He had the
men arrested and brought to trial. Once he was ambushed by thugs
in the pay of the Count d'Artois and other ci-devants. They man-
aged to wound him, though not fatally. Since this attempt on his
life Chaplaine's popularity with the masses had risen to even great-
er heights.

There was no lack of good orators in Paris these days, and Chap-
laine was among the best. His style combined the eloquence of the
ancients and the fanaticism of a crusader with a simple, heartfelt
manner reminiscent of Jean-Jacques. The masses hung upon his
words.

He felt a burning interest in anything which had to do with Jean-
Jacques. Therese and Nicolas showed him the thick packets of fine

263

paper covered with the Master's delicate, powerful characters. His
eyes lit up. Tenderly he stroked the pages with his fleshy hands.

As for Therese herself, he accepted her as a kind of living relic.
He was touched by her being a lourdaude, slow and clumsy in body
and mind. He mustered all his powers of persuasion to urge this
simple-minded, broken-down woman who had been Jean-Jacques's
companion to stay near him in Paris, together with her business
manager and her manuscripts. He himself would stand all the
expenses.

Nicolas spat heavily with satisfaction. Hadn't it been a great idea
of his to demand the return of the manuscripts from the Marquis?
He congratulated himself. His instincts never let him down. He al-
ways managed to make something out of the worst turns of fortune.
Anyone else would have discarded the papers like a sucked or-
ange. But he had gone to some trouble over them, had got them
back by means of an artful letter. Sure enough, new blessings were
sprouting out of the old exhausted soil.

Therese for her part was dumb with astonishment and gratification
when she saw how the new Paris honored her Jean-Jacques. Here
was Citizen Chaplaine who after all had been a clergyman and as
such ought to know speaking of her poor husband as if he had been
a saint. So did everyone else. Busts of Jean- Jacques were everywhere.
His portrait was in all the shop windows. Memorial plaques had been
put up on the very houses where she had lived with him in the Rue
de Crenelle and the Rue Platriere. People might look at her with in-
difference, even with contempt, but their expressions soon changed
when they learned that she was Jean-Jacques's widow. They became
as reverent as if they were in a church.

Numerous articles about Therese appeared in the papers. There
was even a book written about her. She was drawn and painted.
The most popular of these pictures was an etching showing Therese
wandering by the lake at Ermenonville in a bare autumnal landscape.
Far in the background could be seen the island of the poplars, and
the grave, but the scene was dominated by Therese herself a large
melancholy figure walking along with her hands in her muff: a dis-
tinguished elderly woman in a bonnet, with a suspicion of a double
chin. 'Jean-Jacques's Companion,' the etching was entitled, and it
sold like hot cakes. Therese was very much moved when she saw it.
So that was she, ITaerese! Everyone had looked down at her, called
her a lourdaude, a fool and now it turned out that she was a famous

264

lady. What a shame Jean- Jacques wasn't alive to see how they were
honoring his faithful companion! What luck that her Colas could
see it!

This cult of Therese aroused Fernand's indignation. His own affair
with her was finished and forgotten, but he was offended by this
grotesque profaning of the Master s memory. After some hesitation
he asked his friend Lepeletier whether he should do anything to
put a stop to it. Lepeletier cynically advised against it. The whole
affair amused him. "Jean-Jacques himself would certainly approve
of Therese's having an easy life/' he observed, "and what is more,
a dead mouth grins, but it says nothing. By revealing that the touch-
ing stories about Therese are lies you will merely damage Jean-
Jacques's memory and yourself. Prove to a believer that his relics are
a forgery and hell turn, not against the relics, but against you."

So, fostered by Chaplaine, the cult of Therese flourished. A friend
of the deputy, the well-known playwright Bouillie, set to work on a
play about her, to be entitled 7 e an-Jacques and His Spouse/ He
went to see Therese to ask her about her life with the Master.
When he discovered how inarticulate she was he turned to Nicolas,
who recounted a good many affecting anecdotes of his own and
Therese's intimacy with Jean-Jacques. The play was put on in the
former ThMtre italien, now known as the Theatre de TEgalite. The
audience dissolved in tears. Therese had to embrace and kiss a bust
of Jean- Jacques while the crowd cheered. It was a prodigious success.

During Nicolas's conversation with Bouillie, the playwright, there
had been a good deal of talk about Therese's children whom Jean-
Jacques had committed to the foundling home* Of course Jean-
Jacques^ action could be excused in part by the absence of freedom,
equality, and fraternity under the old regime, but still, it stained the
radiance of his memory. Nicolas decided that Therese must forget
the injury Jean- Jacques had done her, must sacrifice herself and make
amends for Jean- Jacques's much criticized act. She had the original
manuscript of Jean-Jacques's songs, the Consolations, put up at auc-
tion, and turned the proceeds over to the foundling home. The in-
mates of this institution, who were now known as the TEnfants de
France/ marched out in their plain uniforms, the tricolor on their
hats, to thank Therese. On this occasion, too, many tears were shed.

And now Nicolas planned his masterstroke. Counting on Deputy
Chaplaine's gratitude, he instructed Therese to present him with her

265

manuscript copy of the Nouvelle Heloise. On his thirty-fifth birthday
she handed him the manuscript.

Jean-Jacques had made four clean-cut copies of the Nouvelle
Heloise. This particular one had been written with loving care for
a noblewoman, one of his beloved, but he had then fallen out with
her and kept the copy in his chest. Now Therese presented it to
Chaplaine.

Her fleshy features twitched as she placed in his hands the creamy
white pages covered with graceful lettering. She had sat with Jean-
Jacques as he wrote those pages. She remembered quite distinctly
how her mother had grumbled at all the trouble and expense of get-
ting him the blue ink, the sheaves of gilt-edged paper, the fine sand.
And he must have read bits of it aloud to her; he had read every-
thing to her. Then there had been the disputes over the papers.
Nicolas had given them timely warnings, but her mother had refused
to let him have the papers and so that villainous ci-devant Girardin
had stolen them. But her good, clever Nicolas had got them back
again. And now she was giving the pages to this nice deputy. That
was Nicolas's wish, and Nicolas always knew what he wanted.

Chaplaine thanked them with manifest delight. When he was
alone he stroked the pages, read a few with rapt emotion, and then
with tender care laid them away in a splendid ivory case which had
once served as a container for some charred bones of St. Lazarus.
It had come into his hands after the sequestration of Church property.

Nicolas had calculated correctly. Deputy Chaplaine's gratitude
went beyond fine phrases. He was a representative of the nation, and
he saw to it that the nation reciprocated the gift of Jean- Jacques's
widow.

One winter evening there appeared at a session of the National
Assembly Therese Levasseur, wife *before Nature* of Jean-Jacques
Rousseau. The gates which separated the public from the deputies
were thrown open, the representatives rose from their seats, and
Therese was conducted to the place of honor.

Deputy Chaplaine mounted the speaker's rostrum. He hailed Jean-
Jacques as the father of the revolution. He extolled Therese as Jean-
Jacques's loyal helpmeet and companion, as his Eurycleia and his
Martha.

Then he moved that she should be paid an ample pension.

266

Chapter 4 The Conspiracy of the Kings

FEBNAND TOOK PRIDE in being a member of the new Legislative
Assembly. It included among its deputies famous scholars, brilliant
speakers, reformers burning with ardor and energy. Moreover, most
of these new legislators were young, scarcely older than Fernand
himself. When since Periclean Athens and Scipio's Rome had
such a group of sincere and gifted men directed the affairs of a state?

The new Assembly set to work immediately to revise the tepid,
vague decisions reached by the preceding National Assembly and
issue firm, clear decrees for the nation to obey. In rapid succession
it enacted laws which even a Martin Catrou had to admit had teeth
to them. It clapped into prison any members of the clergy who
refused to swear allegiance to the new regime. It confiscated the
entire property of all the fugitive nobles and threatened with death
those who failed to return within forty-five days.

Mingled with Fernandas satisfaction at all this was the bitter reali-
zation that not even those enlightened and resolute deputies felt
strong enough to grant the rights of man in the colonies. Little news
came from the West Indies, but this much was certain: a large part
of the white population had been killed, and as neither he nor
Robinet had had any word of the fate of Hortense and her father,
they feared the worst. This intensified Fernandas ardent desire that
so much sacrifice be not in vain and that the slaves in the West Indies
be at last emancipated. In the Assembly he demanded the re-enact-
ment of Lepeletier's law and complete emancipation for the colored
people. He himself wanted to be sent to Cap Frangais with full pow-
ers to put the law into effect. But no one would hear of it. "My dear
fellow," he was told, "first we must consolidate the revolution at
home. We don't have to look for a war across the seas; we have one
here, right on our own frontiers."

And so it was. The emigres had made the city of Coblenz head-

267

quarters for the counterrevolution. There, on German soil but on the
border of France, they were gathering military strength, while Austria
and Prussia supported them with all their power. The leaders of the
new France believed that the King himself was conspiring with the
emigres and foreign courts and was urging them to attack the liber-
ated nation.

Many of the delegates thought they should issue an ultimatum
before the kings of reactionary Europe fell upon France. They de-
manded a preventive war. Fernand was a fervent partisan of this
view. "Let us warn Europe," he cried in the National Assembly, "that
ten million Frenchmen, armed with the power of the sword, the
power of reason and of the spoken word are capable, if further pro-
voked, of transforming the face of the earth and toppling all thrones."

The Assembly several times sent delegations to the King demand-
ing that he make war against the princes who were conspiring against
the new France.

Fernand himself was the leader of one such delegation. Nowadays
there were many gaps and threadbare patches in the old court cere-
monial. But in the Tuileries as in Versailles there were still long
corridors and spacious anterooms with Swiss guards, and with lords-
in-waiting bowing low. Fernand observed the forms and kissed the
King's plump hand. Louis sat there limply, the heavy lids fluttering
over his protuberant eyes. It was easy to see how he hated having
to treat with these rebels instead of having them locked up in the
Bastille.

While he presented the demands of the legislative body in a care-
fully framed, respectful yet menacing address, Fernand watched the
King's plump, tired, strained face and knew what was going on be-
hind that sloping forehead. This man, Louis of Bourbon, loved his
country and his people and felt it his duty to do everything he could
for his France. But he was also a king, descendant of a long line of
kings, and felt it his duty to do everything he could to restore the
absolute monarchy ordained by God. His duty was to the Lilies as
well as to the Tricolor; he wavered this way and that and he was a
poor, sad, pitiable, and extremely dangerous man.

Louis in his turn was inspecting Fernand, the insolent son of that
old fool who had once taken it into his head to provide Jean- Jacques
with a comfortable refuge. The young man had already got his foot
shot up while with the American rebels, but that hadn't taught him
his lesson. Now he had the nerve to come limping up here to demand

268

that his King make war on his brothers, the Icings o Europe. It was
easy enough for young Girardin. He was by nature and profession a
rebel and a traitor; that was how God had made him. He would pay
for it in hell, but on earth at aU events he knew exactly what he had
to do, lucky fellow. Providence had made things more difficult for
Louis himself. Once again he would have to stave off this rabble with
half -promises.

Speaking slowly and hesitantly he assured them that he would
give the proposals of his loyal National Assembly his benevolent
attention. Fortunately, he thought, he had sent secret dispatches
that very week to his cousins the Holy Roman Emperor and the
kings of Prussia, Spain, and Sweden asking them to unite their forces
to defeat the rebellion in France, lest the evil of anarchy spread
through all Europe.

But the King could not put the National Assembly off forever, and
when Austria and Prussia concluded an alliance directed against the
new France the Assembly forced him to consent to settling the issue
by force of arms. Amid wild enthusiasm and with only seven dissent-
ing votes, the National Assembly decided on war.

The whole populace was infected by the zeal of its legislators. The
kings of Europe had conspired to rob the country of the freedom it
liad won. France would crack the robbers' skulls. Almost never in its
thousand years of history had the nation plunged into a war with such
conviction of the justice of its cause. Countless volunteers rallied to the
flag, the tricolor of free France.

Citizen Girardin, the former Marquis, was equally wild with en-
thusiasm. Louis's flight had shocked him; it had severed the bond be-
tween crown and people. But now that Louis had broken the long-
standing pact with Austria and declared war on his wife's homeland,
on his wife's nephew, all his earlier mistakes and weaknesses were
redeemed and a new unity created between the people and their King.
The noble-minded, enlightened King had put his country's fate higher
than the interests of his own house, had yielded to the volonte gene-
rale, the General Will. A great step forward had been taken along
Jean- Jacques's road.

Citizen Girardin reported to the officers in command of the French
armies, Generals Lafayette, Rochambeau, and Luckner. He pointed
out to them that once before, in the Battle of Hastenbeck, in the Sev-
en Years' War, he had fought victoriously against the Duke of
Brunswick, now commander-in-chief of the enemy's armies. He de-

269

clared his eagerness to take part in the present campaign. But La-
fayette declined his offer on the ground that there were too many
ci-devants in the high command as it was. Girardin was deeply hu-
miliated, but he kept the insult to himself; he did not even speak to
his son about it.

All he could do was inspire others with his own enthusiasm and
he was so successful at this that his department provided a dispro-
portionately large number of volunteers. To each volunteer he gave
twenty-five livres for travel expenses and footwear, and when he
had drummed up a sizable contingent of volunteers he held a cele-
bration at his chateau. He made a rousing speech: If he had been able
to defeat this Duke of Brunswick, with soldiers subjected to a tyran-
nical discipline, how much more glorious a victory would be won by
an army of enthusiastic volunteers.

In his heart Girardin was by no means confident of victory. Since
the beginning of the revolution there had been frequent shake-ups
in the high command. Many experienced high-ranking officers had
joined the Emigres. Would this improvised, ill-disciplined army be
able to stand up to the armies of the European coalition with their
long training and expert command?

And in fact, enemy troops invaded France. The first skirmish took
place near Lille. At the very sight of the Austrians the French had
run away screaming, "We are betrayed," and had murdered their
general. To the south, Piedmontese regiments crossed the frontier.
To the east the fortresses of Longwy and Verdun fell. The allied com-
manders were jubilant: this was no campaign, it was a stroll to Paris.

These disasters at the front threatened the internal order. The
people did not believe their army was weak; the cunning spite of
the leaders alone was to blame for the defeats. The people saw every
ci-devant as a traitor, and in their eyes the King was the greatest
traitor of them all.

Once before, the masses had forced their way into the Tuileries.
That time they had chided the King rather good-naturedly for his
disloyalty and had made him accept their fraternity and wear a rev-
olutionary cap. Now, after a violent speech by Deputy Chaplaine,
they stormed the palace a second time. This time there was less
amiability. Many persons were killed, and the King was forced to
flee. He was transferred to the CMteau du Temple, which was a
virtual jail.

Disorders were common in Paris, and the authorities tolerated the

270

disturbances. The prisons were stormed; the masses set up people's
courts; ci-devants who were held in special hatred were tried and
condemned to death. The statues of former kings that adorned many
of the city's squares were smashed while the populace sang patriotic
songs and shouted with joy. Destroying statues was not always an
easy job. Several bronze kings and their bronze steeds proved very
tough, and one Louis the Fourteenth killed a singing woman as he
fell. The crowd handed the bronze arm of a Louis the Fifteenth to
their beloved Chaplaine, who added it to his collection of curios.
Even the popular Henry the Fourth, who for so long had stood on the
Pont Neuf tooking out across the Seine, succumbed to the same fate.

^Girardin's belief that man was good, which had already been sorely
tried, now gave way utterly. Alas, things had turned out just as that
unpleasant Monsieur de Grimm had predicted: the government by
the people, which had been Jean-Jacques's dream, had turned into
that mob rule which the Master had so much abhorred, into ochlo-
cracy. Man was and always would be a barbarian.

Even Fernand, though he clung to his hope of ultimate victory, was
sometimes perplexed by the course of events. He was particularly
shaken by the defeats on the battlefront. The greater was his astonish-
ment when his friends Lepeletier and Martin Catrou took these de-
feats with complete sang-froid. They even welcomed them. In the
Jacobin Club, Martin Catrou exulted: "It is a blessing that the war
has taken this turn. In this way freedom will be consolidated and
purified of the last traces of despotism.

<c The only danger lay in those old generals of yours," he explained
to Fernand, "Royalists at heart Lafayette and all the rest of your
dubious 'Americans/ If they had been victorious they would have
marched back to Paris, strangled the revolution, and reinstated the
Most Christian King with all his old rights. Now the army, the army
of the people, has taken the war into its own hands. They have
kicked out your Lafayette and replaced the questionable generals
with reliable revolutionaries. Now the true has been separated from
the false. Long live defeat!" he cried with grim satisfaction.

"But the enemy is on the way to Paris!" Fernand objected. Had
hatred and suspicion so blinded Martin that he could not see the
terrible reality threatening them? Martin shook his head with a su-
perior air. "Now that the people themselves are conducting the war
they canot be defeated. The enemy will not reach Paris, I assure
you."

271

In the atmosphere of these defeats and disturbances the authority
of the Legislative Assembly was weakened. It was loudly echoed that
the constitution was no longer adequate. A new constitution must be
drawn up: a real social contract founded upon reason and truly rev-
olutionary, which would lay down once and for all the legal status
of the individual in relation to the state. Writs were issued for an-
other election of deputies.

Fernand stood as a candidate again. But this time he too was made
aware of the general mistrust of ci-devants. He was not elected.
Martin Catrou was elected in his place.

Only seven ci~devants were elected. Among them was Michel
Lepeletier.

Fernand was not jealous. But it galled him that the masses should
accept Lepeletier and reject him. Lepeletier made not the smallest
concession to the times. He drove to the Jacobin Club in his splendid
carriage, elegantly and richly dressed, and frequently with a be-
jeweled woman at his side. Sometimes when people had to get out
of the way of his carriage they showed a disposition to be hostile;
but once they recognized their Lepeletier he was loudly cheered.
Why was it that he himself, Fernand, remained the ci-devant, the
stranger, in the people's eyes? Why was it denied him to become a
link in the chain", a brother among brothers?

The day of the newly elected Assembly, the Convention was con-
voked; the former representatives declared their function at an end,
and went in a solemn line to meet the new representatives, and es-
corted them to their council chamber.

Thus dismissed, Femand betook himself back to Ermenonville.

Chapter J A Bitter Joy

AT THEIR VERY first sitting the delegates to the Convention declared
the monarchy abolished and proclaimed the Republic. They resolved
to draw up a much more radical constitution based on the Social

272

Contract. They even introduced a new calendar, which began at
the year one of the one and indivisible Republic.

It was significant that the course of the war took a turn for the
better on the day the Convention first met. On this, the first day of
the Republic, a battered French army, exhausted and ill equipped,
won a decisive victory near the hamlet of Valmy over a hostile force
armed with the most modern weapons of war. The armies of the
allied kings were driven into precipitate flight In quick succession
the soldiers of the Republic overran Verdun and Longwy, took Speyer,
took Mainz and Frankfort, penetrated into Savoy, poured into Hol-
land and Belgium.

These victories took the whole of Europe by surprise.

To Monsieur Robinet, too, they came as a surprise - a disagreeable
surprise. He had not had a very high opinion of the aristocracy, but
even so, he had never imagined that they could fail as miserably
as this.

And he profoundly disapproved of the course of events in Paris.
His political philosophy was simple: Public affairs should be in the
hands of a few who had proved their competence by the acquisition
of riches. Granted that the majority of the Convention consisted
of men who were rich and prudent in a word, of bourgeois; but
even with these men in the saddle, the influence of the mob was
becoming stronger and stronger. No good could come of this. The
mob had even less brain than the nobility.

Yet Monsieur Robinet was convinced that the well-trained allied
armies were bound to win in the end. And till that day carne he
meant to stick it out in France. He would be failing in his duty to
his granddaughter and great-granddaughter if he did not take ad-
vantage of the marvelous business opportunities which now offered
themselves.

To stay was not without its dangers. Most of the tax-farmers who
had not scuttered to safety were behind bars. Of course Robinet
himself had been clever. He had not, as so many others had done,
assumed the title of one of his estates. Now he made himself en-
tirely inconspicuous. He closed up his chateaux and his h6tel in Paris.
He lived quietly and unassumingly with a handful of servants at
Latour. And he contributed lavishly to all the institutions of the new
France. He was almost sure that they would not touch him.

He looked on calmly when Saint- Vigor was confiscated but imme-
diately had the chateau and estate bought back by a man of his.

273

He relied on middlemen to transact all his business. He bought up
everything that came his way, purveyed to the army on a large scale,
all through middlemen.

But when the happy day came, when, as was inevitable, the united
Royalist armies entered Paris in triumph, then his granddaughter's
husband, that fine soldier Count Mathieu de Courcelles, would be
among the victors, then he, Robinet, would come forward and make
it clear that in the absence of his heroic relative he had faithfully
and profitably looked after his interests.

Then something happened which upset all his plans. News came
that Mathieu de Courcelles, who had been covering his regiment's
retreat with his own battalion, had fallen for the Lilies of France.

When Gilberte heard the news she turned to stone. Monsieur Rob-
inet had never dreamed she could become so pale. He stroked her
cold hand. She drew her hand away and left the room. He knew what
was in her mind: she was blaming herself and him for this senseless
death of a decent human being who had loved her.

For two days she did not appear at all. He had food sent up to
her, which she barely touched. On the third day she came down.
They sat together for a while in silence. Then she said, "It hurts,
Grandfather. It hurts wickedly/*

When Robinet thought of his future this normally self-controlled
man was overwhelmed with futile anger. Suddenly he realized that
he had stayed, not to increase his wealth, but because he had wanted
to have Gilberte and little Marie-Sidonia to himself.

It would be madness to court further danger. It might be an eternity
before the rest of Europe managed to clear up the scandalous state
of affairs in France, and in the meantime the fools here in Paris were
capable of God knew what! Monsieur Robinet was in danger, Gil-
berte even more so as the widow of an enemy of the Republic. They
must leave France.

Rut he knew Gilberte. Intelligent though she was, she had let her-
self be infected by the crazy new ideas, the trashy thinking of the
old fool who was lying over there under his poplars. She would be
reluctant to go, would insist on staying, would offer a thousand argu-
ments all but the real one. For the real reason was that wretched
fanatic, that dreamer, that halfwit young Girardin.

Such were Monsieur Robinefs thoughts when Fernand was
announced.

The news of Mathieu's death had thrown Fernand into great con-

274

fusion. He had borne Gilberte's husband no ill will. Working on war
preparations, he had never given a moment's thought to this good,
brave man whose conscience had driven him out of the country. The
revolution had caused the deaths of more important men, yet Fer-
nand had an uneasy feeling that he was in part responsible for this
death.

Robinet did not trouble to conceal his anger at the sight of Fer-
nand. The young coxcomb, assailing his own interests and those of
his friends! He was the fellow who had introduced the measure call-
ing for the confiscation of emigre property. He was the fellow who
had goaded his country into the internecine struggle which had cost
Mathieu his life! "Now you see what comes of your philosophy,, mon-
sieur!" he greeted him. "You babble about Nature and peace, about
equality and fraternity, and then you make civil war! Poor Mathieu!
But he at least knew on which side he belonged."

Fernand was surprised to see the old gentleman whom he had al-
ways regarded as the embodiment of cool self-interest so carried
away by his feelings. "Your grief is pardonable, monsieur," he said.
"I am not going to debate with you. I have no wish to anger you still
further. I have come to express my sympathy with you and Gilberte,
my sincere sympathy," "That won't bring Mathieu back to life," said
Robinet with bitter mockery.

Gilberte was standing in the doorway. Her face above the black
gown was paler than Fernand had ever seen it. She remained stand-
ing by the door, regarding Fernand wordlessly. Fernand was not
able to speak either. For once again a new Gilberte was confronting
him, and yet the earlier one.

In her groping efforts to emerge from her torpor Gilberte had
come to some strange rationalizations.

Though she always contradicted her grandfather when he spoke
of the ultimate victory of the monarchy, deep in her heart she had
never fully believed in the stability of the Republic. She had learned
from her mother's example to regard the great, the privileged, the
representatives of power as a permanent institution, as a kind of fate.
They were there forever, like the earth's primeval rocks. It was in-
conceivable to her that a kingdom which had lasted for more than
a thousand years could be permanently destroyed by that foolish old
Jean- Jacques and her own lovable but slightly crazy Fernand. She
had always thought of her Fernandas philosophy as a sort of hobby-
horse which the obstinate enthusiast had taken it into his head to

275

ride into the forests of America and onto the tribunes of the Paris
revolutionaries. But that this wooden toy should come to life and
remain alive seemed absurd to her. Nor could she really believe
that after she had given up so much and fought so hard for her privi-
leges her child would not, after all, be a Countess Courcelles but
a simple commoner.

Mathieu's death had rudely jolted her out of this secret belief.
Her good, sensible Mathieu, one of those indestructible great ones
of the earth, was defeated and dead; and Fernand, the dreamer,
the eternal boy, the wise fool ? was here, alive and in the right.
Events had proved his folly wiser than Mathieu's and her grand-
father's common sense. The world as she had known it had come
down with a crash, and Gilberte had no solid ground to stand on.
She was paralyzed, lost, done for. She had made the wrong choices
at every turn. Femand was not a boy and dreamer; rather she was
a silly little girl who had rejected the man who had generously tried
to build her a bridge into his new world. How stupid she had been!

Now, when she saw Fernand take two steps toward her, embar-
rassed yet manly, his slight limp only emphasizing how firmly he
stood with both feet on the ground, she began to weep uncontroll-
ably. She dissolved in a sense of her own inferiority; yet it was good
to feel inferior to him.

Fernand had never seen Gilberte in tears. He was surprised, em-
barrassed, overjoyed. He did not dare to speak nor to fondle her,
even though he felt as close to her now as he had so often felt long,
long ago.

Robinet was still in die room, but they had forgotten him. He
watched them standing there absorbed in each other. He was no
moralist, and dignity meant nothing to him. Yet though absolutely
nothing happened he had a feeling that this scene was something
unseemly. For the first time in his life he failed to understand his
granddaughter. The news of Mathieu's death had hurt her deeply,
and now here she stood unable to take her eyes off this other man.
Robinet felt it was his duty to say something; but he was afraid
that then he might lose her. He felt very old and misunderstood and
crept quietly out of the room.

"I am dreadfully sorry," Fernand said at last. "It is very, very hard
for you/' These were miserably inadequate words from a man whose
eloquence had carried away the Legislative Assembly, but Gilberte
gave him a grateful look and all at once he understood why Gilberte

276

had not wanted to let him go to America and why she had married
Mathieu, and with gladness he saw that she now felt she had been
mistaken all along.

The child, the nine-year-old Marie-Sidonia, came into the room.
She was dressed in black. She had had to discard all the manners
she had so arduously acquired; formal obeisances and low curtseys
were no longer allowed. But in the long, heavy black frock which
made her look like a grown-up and in the presence of Fernand -
she suddenly became the little Countess Courcelles again and me-
chanically she swept Count Bregy a curtsey.

Even now Fernand and Gilberte found little to say to each other.
But Fernand began abruptly to talk about Saint-Domingue. News
from there was scarce, and dreadful when it came, he said. He had
friends there, one young lady very dear to him, and he was afraid
his friends had died in the abominable war between whites and
blacks.

Gilberte knew quite well why he was telling her this. And just as
a moment ago he had found only trite words for her, she now said
simply and sincerely, "Yes, these are bitter times for us all/*

Once more there was silence between them. Little Maria-Sidonia
sat solemnly by. The lapdog Pompon, who had run to fat, panted
asthmatically.

When Fernand left, they still had not said much to each other.
Yet he felt as if he had had a long, confidential talk with her, as in
the days of their closest intimacy.

The new times had brought them together. The revolution had
severed Gilberte's connection with the Court in a terrible manner and
shown her with cruel clarity where she belonged. She could now
properly call herself Citizen Courcelles; she had reached her goal,
but he was happily aware that he would reach it, too.

Chapter 6 Sinister Guests

THE CONVENTION numbered seven hundred and forty-nine mem-
bers, all professing tha principles of Jean-Jacques whose image,

277

carved out of the stone taken from the ruins of the Bastille, looked
down upon them. All desired to create the kind of republic he had
envisioned. Yet they differed widely on the ways to achieve this aim.
Many of the deputies were citizens of standing; not a few were men
of substance. In the early years of the revolution they had been
'radicals'; now they were moderates. They shunned violence; when
it was unavoidable they used fine words to lend it an appearance
of law and order.

There was a small minority, however, less than a hundred out of
the seven hundred and forty-nine, who were determined to see Jean-
Jacques's principles victorious at all costs; to achieve full equality
using any and all means, including violence and apparent injustice.

In the Manege, the building in which the Convention sat, these
determined democrats occupied the highest, the uppermost seats.
Deputy Chaplaine, who was one of them, with his fondness for the
figurative called their part of the hall 'La Montague, 7 the Mountain,
and so the party was called thereafter.

The undisputed leader of the 'Montagnards* was Maximilien Robes-
pierre. Martin Catrou, who had had no hesitation in choosing his
seat among them, observed with admiration and a respect not un-
mixed with pity the changes which this onerous task had wrought
in Robespierre. When Martin had first heard him speak at the
Jacobin* Club the expression of his mouth had been kindly, his eyes
mild, his brow smooth and clear. Now his lips were almost always
compffessed, his forehead lined; his eyes when they were not hidden
behind 'greenish spectacles wore a look of fixed introspection. When
Maximilien smiled it cut Martin to the heart; his rare laughter had
a harsh, bitter sound. The superhuman task of leading this small
select minority of the virtuous up the steep path conferred tre-
mendous power on Robespierre and laid upon him a breathtaking
burden.

There was another among Martin's radical colleagues for whom he
had from the beginning felt the greatest respect. This was Antoine
de Saint-Just, at twenty-five, the youngest of the deputies. Tall and
very slender, he always was dressed with scrupulous elegance. A
cravat almost foppish in material and color encircled his high collar,
above which rose an oval face of girlish delicacy. Large, gray-blue
eyes shone above a Grecian nose; the brows were thick and extremely
arched. His ash-blond hair was combed slightly forward on his
forehead and fell down to his shoulders. Saint-Just had exquisitely

278

gentle manners. His gestures were restrained almost to the point of
stiffness, but a fierce interior fire flamed in his enormous eyes,
checked only by extreme self-discipline and the rigid exercise of
reason.

Saint- Just attended every session of the Convention but never took
the floor. . He attracted attention nevertheless. He was remarkable
enough for his external appearance; Robespierre's friendship made
him more so. They frequently entered the chamber together and
frequently left it together.

It cost Martin an effort to address Saint-Just, but he did so. Saint-
Just subjected the short, awkward young man's hard, clever face to
an arrogantly long examination. When it was over at last he replied
politely, practically, exhaustively. Martin beamed with pleasure.
Saint- Just had accepted him.

The two young deputies exchanged visits. When he moved to
Paris, Martin had taken lodgings in an ugly house in an ugly part
of the city. The elegant Saint- Just climbed the worn, rickety stairs,
entered the rooms crammed with furniture all in the worst of taste,
and Martin felt himself honored as never before in his life.

The Convention had abolished the Monarchy, but the moderate
majority was reluctant to decide the fate of the King himself. More
and more vociferously the people were demanding that Louis, the
tyrant and traitor, should be dealt with once and for all.

For Robespierre it was settled that Louis Capet, as he was now
called, after the name of his dynasty, must die. Louis's deatirwould
of course alarm the other kings of Europe into intensifying their
war efforts, and all the fainthearted people in the Convention and
the nation would raise a great hue and cry. But such objections were
overborne by the arguments to be found in Jean-Jacques's books.
Louis must die. Only then could the Jeans and Jacques step into
his shoes, and Maximilien had sworn to the Master that they would.

In his logical way he expounded his reasons to Saint- Just. Saint-
Just took the words out of his mouth. Calmly and precisely they
added up the arguments in a concord which came from the heart.
These two serious young men smiled at the depth of their mutual
understanding.

They went to Ermenonville to seek strength from the Master for
the battle they were to wage in his name.

Slowly and without talking they walked through the garden. It
was autumn: statues and temples stood bleakly in the denuded park

279

under a gray sky. Maximilian recalled how he had walked along
these same paths with Jean-Jacques during his last days on earth;
how Jean-Jacques had talked to him about botany, the most delight-
ful of the sciences, and then, bitterly, about the human beings who
misunderstood and hated him because of his love for humanity. Now,
Maximilien felt, he was understanding Jean- Jacques fully for the first
time. Any man who truly loved humanity must expect to be hated,
for he must commit actions which but for that love would be un-
thinkable crimes.

They reached the lake. On the little island under the tall, slender,
leafless poplars the grave was visible a sight that filled them with
deep emotion and awe.

Saint- Just sat down on the bank under the willow tree and let his
friend row over to the island alone. His olive-green coat wrapped
about Mm, Maximilien Robespierre stood, bareheaded, erect, and
alert before the bare, gray-white altar that rose up from the island,
sharply outlined against the autumn sky. The man upon whose
shoulders Providence had placed the burden of Jean- Jacques's heri-
tage stood there, slight and motionless in the damp, chill wind, his
pale, fleshless face, under a painstakingly neat coiffure, turned
toward the stone under which his master lay.

He looked composed; yet he was shaken to the depths of his being
by the magnitude of his mission: to destroy Louis so that Jean- Jacques
might live. Principles of uncompromising severity laid down in Jean-
Jacques's works crowded into his mind: In the best days of the
Roman Republic neither the Senate nor the Consuls nor the people
would have thought of exercising clemency/ And: "The man who
has broken the social contract is no longer a member of the state
but a public enemy and as such must be exterminated/

It was precisely Jean-Jacques's tenderness which had driven him to
such cruel stemess; the very logic of his humanity had given him
his embittered strength. And now this harshness born of love for
humanity lived on in Maximilien. France's thousand-year-old throne
had tumbled, and he would be acting wholly in the spirit of his
tenderhearted Master if he were to tumble the occupant of that
throne after it into the void!

As they walked back through the gardens he imparted his thoughts
to Saint-Just. Jean-Jacques's love for humanity had been Janus-
headed, he said. Toward the individual with his private cares Jean-
Jacques had been as kindly as his Vicar of Savoy; toward the state

280

and its citizens he had shown the severity of the Social Contract.
Nor did he hesitate to grant the individual what he denied the citi-
zen. In this sublime single-mindedness lay his greatness. Certain
philosophers and politicians, the moderates, the Girondists, were
people of such supple intelligence, of such good taste and immense
culture, that they saw too many sides at once; their very gifts were
their weakness. If you wanted to go forward you must keep your
eyes on the road ahead. Too much philosophy was weakening. The
Republic needed men who were strong because of their very single-
mindedness.

Later, on the ride home, Saint-Just told his friend about some of
the thoughts that had gone through his head as he sat under the
willow tree. Was it not odd that the precious bones of the father of
the Republic should rest here in this out-of-the-way place under the
care of a silly old ci-devant who behaved as if they were his private
property? Was it not contrary to reason and the dignity of the Re-
public that Voltaire's remains should lie in the Pantheon while Jean-
Jacques's remains were shut away from the people in Monsieur de
Girardin's park?

Saint- Just's argument was sound. Jean-Jacques had a right to the
Pantheon; Paris and the people had a right to Jean- Jacques. But
deeply engraved on Maximilien's memory was the picture of himself,
fifteen years no, a thousand years younger, strolling at Ermenon-
ville with Jean- Jacques. For him the memory of Jean-Jacques was
bound up forever with these gardens. He could not imagine the
Master apart from the trees, tie hillocks, the little lake. **You are
right, Antoine," he said. "But I had it from Jean- Jacques's own dear
lips how deep was his love for the gardens of Ermenonville. Paris
and the world at large need no reminder of him. They are reminded
daily by the victory of the armies that have sprung to life from his
books and his ideas. Let us leave his body to rest under the trees he
loved. Jaceat ubi jacet"

Saint-Just took Robespierre's refusal in good part. But the latter
regretted having had to say no and was eager to give his friend a
sign of his affection and regard. "I am going to suggest that in the
debate on the King's trial you speak for us, Antoine," he told him.

Saint- Just's pale, set face lit up. The whole country was expecting
Robespierre himself to reply to the majority speaker and call for a
trial. For Maximilien to assign this task to him was a mark of the
highest confidence. Surely in the whole course of history no orator

281

had ever had a grander subject than revolutionary France's demand
for the extermination of their traitorous despot The young man's
burning patriotism and burning ambition merged into one great flame.
It had cost him much in will power and self-discipline to sit and
listen for so long in silence at the Convention; now his friend whom
he so much admired was rewarding his patience.

"I will speak, if you wish me to, Maximilien," he said. And after
a pause he added, "Thank you, Maximilien.''

Chapter 7 Maiden Speech

THE DEBATE WHICH was to decide the King's fate began on a dreary
November day.

Spokesman for the moderate majority was a deputy from the Ven-
dee, Charles-Gabriel Morisson, a widely known jurist In a polished
and brilliantly logical speech he demonstrated that in spite of the
King's monstrous and sanguinary crimes neither the law of the coun-
try nor the eternal principles of justice would allow his being put
on trial. The laws he had violated had been passed only after his
crimes. The Convention's task was to put the Monarchy on trial, not
the King's inviolable person. If the Republic was concerned with its
own safety, it should keep the former King in close custody or banish
him from the country by legal means.

Everyone expected that the Montagne party would put up Robes-
pierre to reply to Morisson's impressive speech. Instead a young man
took the floor who was as good as unknown, who had never spoken
before: a deputy from the department of the Aisne Antoine de
Saint- Just.

Slowly he mounted the nine steep steps of the tribunal. He stood
there beneath the flag of the Republic. Jean- Jacques looked down at
him from his plaque; on the wall behind him a large tablet sur-
rounded by fasces, the symbols of power over life and limb, pro-
claimed the rights of man. Two enormous candelabra with countless
candles illumined his pallid face.

282

Without a trace of nervousness Saint-Just laid the text of his speech
down in front of him, adjusted his cravat, looked round the hall,
and began:

"1 propose to show you, citizen-legislators, the absurdity of this in-
violability which Morisson claims for the former King. On the con-
trary, the sovereign people has a perfect right to base its treatment
of Louis Capet on the public good. I declare, and shall prove, that
the King is to be regarded and treated as an enemy. We are not here
to indulge in subtle legalistic argument concerning his actions, but
to fight him to the bitter end/'

The moderates were agreeably surprised that the opposition should
make the task so easy for them. These cultured, skillful writers and
speakers could scarcely help smiling at the self-confidence of the in-
experienced young man's introductory remarks. They would be able
to demolish his case effortlessly, with good-natured irony.
^ "It is our business to establish a republic," Saint-Just went on.
"And republics are not established by legal pettifoggery. A mind that
perceives too many nuances, a too highly developed moral sense, are
qualities detrimental to the march of freedom. Generations to come
will be surprised that the eighteenth century was less progressive than
the century of Caesar. In those days the tyrant could be disposed
of in broad daylight while the Senate sat, without any other formality
than twenty-three blows of the dagger and with no legal sanction
other than the freedom of Rome."

The Manege held two thousand persons; three thousand were
present. They listened with bated breath; there was profound si-
lence in the hall and galleries. The moderates' confidence began to
evaporate.

Yet what the speaker was saying was by no means novel, it was
the Montagnards* familiar wrong-headed, violent interpretation of
Jean-Jacques's teachings. What was new, however, was its form
the classical calm with which this young man delivered his sangui-
nary demands. He did not declaim vehemently like the other mem-
bers of his party. On the contrary, the words fell quietly, coldly,
incisively from his girlishly delicate lips. His alabaster countenance
remained expressionless. It was impossible to ignore this deputy's
unusual eloquence. The youthful Saint- Just carried away even his
opponents with his icy fire.

Martin Catrou listened enthralled. These were his own thoughts
that his friend Saint-Just was uttering, and the thoughts of Maxi-

283

milieu Robespierre, but how different they sounded, how new and
razor-sharp, as they fell from these lips. They spoke the deadly logic
of the Republic; back of them could be heard the inexorable tramp
of the revolution.

"Can a people on the very threshold of freedom afford piety
toward the memory of its chains?" Saint- Just now asked, "What sort
of a republic do you think you will set up, citizens, if the axe trem-
bles in your hands? The nations and peoples do not administer justice
according to the principles of dusty lawbooks; the nations and peoples
hurl deadly thunderbolts. Citizens! The court which is to sit in judg-
ment on Louis Capet is a court-martial. There is no middle way:
either you restore the tyrant to his throne, or you strike off his head."

The three thousand listened in utter silence. They gazed spell-
bound at this young man whose every word demanded one thing
only: 'La mort, la mortl Death, death!'

Interrupting the speakers of the Convention with applause or ex-
pressions of disapproval was forbidden. But the people in the gal-
leries could not contain themselves; they cheered Saint- Just and
shouted in frenzy, "La mort, la mortl Death to the tyrant!" The presi-
dent put on his hat to restore order. The crowd roared on. The
young man raised his hand. His delicate fingers succeeded where
the president had failed: there was silence.

'This man," Saint-Just declared, "raised troops secretly, in secret
proscribed all good, brave citizens, in secret kept his own officials
and envoys. He regarded the citizens of a free people as his slaves;
he is responsible for the murder of the countless numbers who fell
at Nancy, on the Champ de Mars, in the Tuileries."

The moderates had already realized that their cause was lost.
This elegant young gentleman's quiet words had sealed the King's
fate. Alas, they, the moderates, had only reason and statesmanship
behind them, while behind the Montagne party stood the people
in their unbridled, murderous frenzy.

"Put him on trial, citizens!" Saint-Just concluded. "At once! To-
morrow! Do not delay! Prudence and sound statesmanship demand
it. Louis must die so that France may live/'

Howls of "Death, death, death!" filled the hall.

Robespierre had listened without jealousy as his own arguments,
even his own turns of phrase, were voiced by Saint-Just. His good
friend was clearing the way for equality and fraternity Jean-

284

Jacques's way - so that all could march along it Maximilian was
more satisfied than if he had spoken himself.

Chapter 8 No Fake Humanity!

THE WHOLE COUNTRY took an excited interest in the King's impending
trial. The Convention was swamped by a flood of threats and pleas;
many offered to die in Louis's stead. It was clear that millions were
still loyal to the King. Which made the Jacobins all the more vehe-
ment in demanding his death.

Fernand saw Lepeletier almost daily at this time. He was both
shocked and fascinated by the way his friend had remorselessly
thought out the idea of revolution to its logical conclusion. Injustice
to individuals was a necessary consequence of that glorious, ultimate
justice which was the essence of the revolution. "I am heart and
soul in favor of the revolution, though it should destroy me," Lepe-
letier declared.

Even in the great controversy which now arose over what was
to be done with the deposed monarch he did not allow himself to be
confused by emotions. Fernand on the other hand recoiled from the
idea that Louis should die. As a boy he had kissed the King's hand;
since then he had seen and spoken to Louis many times up till that
day on which he had urged him in the name of the National As-
sembly to declare war. And was not the whole French people as emo-
tionally bound up with Louis as he himself was? Louis was the last
of sixty kings of his line; for a thousand long years the people's des-
tiny had been inextricably linked with that of the Capets. This dy-
nasty had given France one common language and made her a nation.

Lepeletier waved Fernandas objections aside with a good-natured
gesture. These arguments were nothing but false humanity, he said.
With cold-blooded matter-of-factness he showed Fernand that Louis
must die because his death was politically necessary. If he were kept
imprisoned he would remain the focal point for every antirepublican

285

movement in France or elsewhere. "We can't abolish the Monarchy,"
Lepeletier observed in his quiet, pleasant, tenor voice, "and permit its
most effective symbol, the King, to remain alive. The very moment
we deposed Louis we decided in effect that we must exterminate him.
There is hardly any distance between the last step down from the
throne and the first step up to the scaffold."

Lepeletier had no personal liking, as Fernand was well aware, for
the men of the Montagne party, for Robespierre and Saint- Just; he
was fond of poking fun at their inflexibility. He was far more at home
with the moderates, the Girondists, those brilliant and resourceful
orators and philosophers. But in questions of practical politics he felt
that the Jacobins were right. "Every politician must long ago have
realized what has to be done with the King," he said. "Robespierre
and Saint- Just saw it all clearly. Our friends the moderates were too
clever, with the result that they now face the dilemma: which should
they sacrifice, the King or the Republic?"

Having unanimously declared the former King guilty, the repre-
sentatives of the people were now deliberating his punishment.

The session began in the morning, lasted all day and night and a
large part of the following day; then, after an adjournment, it again
occupied a day and most of the night. An audience of more than two
thousand sat tightly packed in the galleries. Ladies in their best
attire with lists of deputies in their hands counted the votes, marked
off here, and crossed out there.

The first deputies to be called were those from the Haute Ga-
ronne. There was absolute silence as the first one said: "La mort,
death/* And the second said, "La mort." And the fifth, "La mort!'

Then the twelve deputies from the Gironde were called, among
them the best known of the moderates. Their leader, Vergniaud,
had assured his friends yesterday that he would never vote for Louis's
death. Now he declared, "As a statesman I was for allowing the
people to decide. The Convention has determined otherwise. I sub-
mit My conscience is clear. As a lawyer I vote for death."

One after the other, in an atmosphere of extreme suspense, the
deputies mounted the tribune to record their votes, embroidering
their verdict in a variety of ways. One said, "Death within twenty-
four hours/' another, "Death, perhaps already too late to save the
Convention's honor." Deputy Duchatelle, who was seriously ill, had
himself carried up to the tribune on a stretcher, voted, for the King
to be spared, and himself died the same night, which amused some

286

people. One deputy who had fallen asleep with fatigue was wakened
to record his vote, sleepily said, "Death," and fell asleep again.

There was utter silence as the former Duke of Orleans, Louis's
cousin, now known as Philippe Egalite, mounted the tribune. He had
given his friends a solemn promise that he would abstain from voting.
Now he came puffing up the steps, in manner and appearance ab-
surdly like his cousin Louis, and declared, "He who injures the sov-
ereignty of the state must die. La mort"

Fernand was particularly anxious to know what his friends Lepele-
tier and Martin Catrou would do. Up till the last he irrationally
expected that Lepeletier would not send to his death the man who
had given him high office and in other ways never showed him any-
thing but good will. But in his even, pleasant voice, Lepeletier said:
"La mortr

Lepeletier was followed by a number of deputies who voted for
life imprisonment or for postponing execution and submitting the
death sentence to a popular vote. Many deputies, even many radi-
cals, voted this way. The scales rose, the scales fell; the outcome was
hard to determine.

There was an Englishman sitting as a member of the Convention
of the French Republic, a certain Thomas Paine who had played a
decisive part in founding the American Republic. Since Louis's crown
now lay in the gutter, he said, Louis himself should be banished,
and to the United States of America. There, burdened with the mem-
ory of the crimes he had committed as king of France, he would
learn from constant observation of the well-being of the American
people that not monarchy but democracy was the proper system of
government.

At last Martin Catrou was called. Fernand leaned forward. In his
clear, incisive voice Martin said, "Death. That's all."

The secretary of the Convention counted the votes. It took a long
time; they were counted three times. The air in the packed hall was
foul with fumes from the stoves, the braziers, the thousands of can-
dles. The people were uneasy; they wanted to get up and go out into
the night for a breath of fresh, air. But they stayed lest they miss the
moment when the verdict was announced. And upon those thousands
waiting in suspense Jean- Jacques looked down from his bas-relief .

At last, at two-fifteen in the morning the president mounted the
tribune. He announced that of 749 members 28 were absent; accord-
ingly, of the 721 members present 361 would constitute a majority.

287

The vote for imprisonment, banishment, or deferment of the death
penalty was 360; for immediate death 361.

There was a fearful silence in the hall So the King was condemned
to death by one vote.

The president put on his hat and announced, "The sentence which
the representatives of the sovereign people have pronounced upon
Capet is therefore immediate execution."

Still there was no sound. Then a few isolated voices cried, "Long
live the Republic!" But almost no one joined in.

Fernand stood up and stretched his stiff limbs. The old wound
in his foot was bothering him. He felt stupefied. By a majority of one!
If his friend Michel or his friend Martin had voted differently, the
King's life would have been saved.

Lepeletier, after the interminable session, slept late into the day.
Toward evening he went to the Traiteur Fevrier in the Palais Royal
to listen around in this elegant restaurant and find out what people
thought of his action. The King's supporters, all the moderates, and
even some of the Montagnards had expected him to vote in favor of
sparing Louis. Undoubtedly they would not understand why he
had had no scruples about sacrificing Louis, whose cause was already
lost, rather than be a traitor to his own reason. Certainly, since the
King's life had depended on a single vote, many people would call
him a Judas because he had voted for the Republic and against the
King.

He was greeted by friends when he entered the restaurant He ate
and chatted. One or two people remarked that it was a bit unfortu-
nate that just his vote should have decided the death penalty. Others
praised him, rather too fulsomely, for his courage. It was all just
about as Lepeletier had expected. He did not stay long, for he was
still tired out from the interminable sitting. He said good night to
his friends.

In the neighborhood of the Palais Royal a number of variously dis-
guised malcontents and fugitives had found secret hideouts with
mistresses, tradespeople who had supplied the Court, and sympa-
thizers of all kinds. Among these partisans of the Monarchy was one
of the King's halberdiers, a certain Leparis. He nursed a particularly
fanatical hatred for the Duke of Orleans, that arch-traitor who had
condemned his own cousin, the anointed King, to the scaffold. All
day long he had been lurking near the Palais Royal, where the Duke
lived, in the hope of meeting and killing him. But Orleans was worn

288

out with the strain of the sitting; he stayed at home and slept. In the
evening the halberdier Leparis, an imposing, well-dressed figure, went
to look for the Duke in the Restaurant Fevrier. He did not find him.
He did, on the other hand, catch sight of Lepeletier s well-known,
ugly, hated face. Here was another who had had favors heaped
upon him by the King and had then betrayed him. The halberdier
approached Lepeletier as he was paying his check at the cashier s
desk "Are you not Monsieur Lepeletier?'' he asked. Lepeletier agreed
that he was. "Did you not vote for the Kings execution?* he asked
further. "Yes, monsieur," Lepeletier answered. "I voted as my con-
science bade me. But what business is that of yours?" "Here is your
reward, Judas!" cried Leparis, and drawing a dagger from under his
coat, he stabbed Lepeletier in the side. He died within a few minutes.

That day Fernand, too, slept long. In the evening he went out to
look for Michel. He came upon a great crowd outside his friend's
house, and heard what had happened. He felt faint and sick. He
went into the house and saw the body, saw also their mutual friend
Jacques-Louis David drawing the dead man. He refused to grasp
what had happened, grasped it nonetheless grasped that his great
friend, Michel Lepeletier, with his cynicism, his fanatical rationalism,
had met with a death that was the logical conclusion of what his life
had been.

Fernand went to the Jacobin Club in the Rue Honore. Defiant
and triumphant, Martin Catrou told him, "Your friend was a good
man, and he's even more useful to the Republic dead than alive.
Until tonight the martyr was Louis Capet; now it will be Michel
Lepeletier."

Fernand understood what he meant. The King had passionate
supporters in Paris, men willing to die for him; great demonstrations
had been expected, perhaps even open rebelling. The senseless
murder of a people's deputy who had no more than done his duty
had turned all sympathies toward the dead man. Now Paris talked
more about Lepeletier's sudden and tragic end than about the death
which awaited the King. Lepeletier was the martyr of the Republic.

The Jacobins were quick and vigorous in exploiting the assassi-
nation. That very night they issued a manifesto. Citizens,' it ran,
'this dastardly stroke was directed not against the life of an indi-
vidual but against the whole nation: against freedom, against the
sovereignty of the people.' That same night, too, it was resolved that
the dead martyr was to be carried in state to the Pantheon and that

289

a statue was to be erected in his memory in the Place Vendome.
A bust of him was to be placed in the Convention next to those of
Brutus and Jean-Jacques. A section of Paris, a street, and a public
square were to be named after him, as well as several communities,
large and small, throughout the country.

King Louis said good-bye to his family that night. He dined with
his confessor. Then he read the newspaper, the Mercure de France.
Then, in Hume's History of England he read the chapter describing
the execution of Charles I. He had begun work on a translation of this
book and regretted not having finished it.

He was leaving a good deal unfinished. In his thirty-eight years
of life he had done much that he ought not to have done and left
undone much that he ought to have done. He ought not, for ex-
ample, to have helped the rebellious English provinces of America
against his cousin the King of England. And he ought, for example,
to have dealt with those rebels and heretics Voltaire and Rousseau
before it was too late. Had he done so, everything would have turned
out differently. He had paid too much attention to the words of his
advisers instead of listening to his own divinely inspired inner voice,
and his advisers had been deluded. Most of his nobles had been
deluded. They had dug their own graves, and his own as well.

But he did not wish, on his last night on earth, to indulge in regrets
or accusations. He felt he could justifiably claim that before every
momentous decision he had labored mightily, had searched his con-
science, listened to his advisers, consulted the examples of history.
His intentions had always been for the best, and one of these days
his Frenchmen and posterity would understand that.

He shut his eyes. Then it occurred to him that in the morning
he must not forget to take out the money that he had left in the
pocket of his coat and add it to the fee of his defending counsel,
good, brave Malesherbes. Then he fell asleep. He slept deeply and
well.

Next morning the whole country, the whole world, looked on as
Louis was driven to the Place de la Revolution and led onto the
scaffold. The smallest detail was noticed, recorded, preserved. And
when, at twenty-three minutes past ten o'clock, the executioner San-
son seized Louis's severed head by the hair, raised it aloft, and strode
around the scaffold displaying it on all four sides to the people of
Paris, a tremendous cry went up from the city: "Long live the Re-
public!" Thousands of people stampeded onto the scaffold and fought

290

to dab handkerchief s, scarves, pieces of paper in the blood. One man,
completely beside himself, sprinkled drops of blood from the scaf-
fold onto the people below and screamed: "They told us the King's
blood would be upon our heads. I baptize you! I baptize you! And
so it is upon our heads!"

Escorted by gendarmes and officials of the Commune of Paris,
the King's body was taken to the nearby cemetery of Madeleine de
la Ville 1'Eveque. There the body, with the head between its knees,
was lowered in a sort of basket into a very deep pit, the bottom of
which was covered with a thick layer of unslaked lime. A second
thick layer of unslaked lime was poured on top of the body, and then
a third, so that not even the gold of all the potentates in Europe
would be able to produce the smallest relic from the remains of this
last of the Louis'.

In the meantime preparations were being made for transferring
Lepeletier to the Pantheon. The painter David, France's foremost
artist, had been ordered to take charge of the funeral rites.

Carefully embalmed, the corpse was displayed to the people in
the Place Vendome. Pale, naked but for a cloth thrown over the
lower parts, the body lay on an elevated bed of state, the wound
gaping in its side.

Borne aloft on a high ceremonial carriage of antique design, the
body was taken through the streets of Paris. Two children stood at
the dead man's feet, each carrying a torch pointing to the ground.
Venerable old men in togas, bearing palms, walked before the car-
riage; veiled young girls carrying flowers surrounded it Before the
funeral procession moved off, the president of the Convention
mounted the carriage and placed a wreath of oak leaves on the dead
body. All the deputies of the Convention, all the members of the
Jacobin Clubs, and every patriotic society and branch organization
in the city of Paris took part in the procession. Everywhere were
banners veiled in crepe, muffled drums. Lepeletier's bloodstained
clothing was carried in the procession. Huge placards extolled the
murdered man's writings and acts, his penal code, his book entitled
Free Education for All, the many laws which bore his name. Even
larger placards recorded in enormous letters for the benefit of the
citizens of Paris the last words which Lepeletier was said to have
spoken: 1 am glad to shed my blood for my country. The blood of
patriots is the seed of freedom.' And above all this, in mournful tri-
umph, towered the bed of state with the corpse whose bloody, gaping

291

wound was more eloquent than any words written, sung, or spoken.

Fernand waited for the procession near the Pantheon.

His heart was full of grief and bitter knowledge. This death, too,
like that of the King, was a consequence of Jean-Jacques's ideas.
He thought of all the clever remarks, resigned, skeptical, and at the
same time confident, that Lepeletier would have made about his
own death. He had been a true freethinker, the enemy of all moral
hypocrisy a very human pupil of Lucretius and Jean-Jacques.
Fernand could hear Michel declaring in his quiet, pleasant voice:
1 am heart and soul in favor of the revolution, even if it destroys
me/ They had certainly dressed up these simple words of his in a
theatrical guise. How Lepeletier would have laughed at these Jaco-
bins for hailing him as a Brutus, a hero and a martyr.

How much misinterpretation there was on all sides concerning
Jean-Jacques and his work! How many lies! And this last journey
that his dear friend was making in Jean- Jacques's name, how incred-
ible and tragically heroic, how grotesquely false it was! But Le-
peletier would not have refused to make it. For these lies and errors
were a source of life.

The procession had reached the Pantheon. The choir of the Grand
Opera sang a hymn in honor of the dead man. The corpse was put
into a coffin and ceremoniously lowered into the vaults next to the
body of Voltaire.

Chapter 9 La Terreur! La Terreur!

SHUDDERED when he heard of the King's death. On the
day the horror took place he shut himself into his study. He did not
eat, could not bear to see anybody.

To restore his tranquillity he went to Jean-Jacques's books and
read some of the solitary, melancholy reveries. He grew calmer. In
the midst of this sea of madness and cruelty his Ermenonville re-
mained an island of wisdom and peace. Here was Jean- Jacques's
Nature and here his sacred remains lay at rest.

292

Then Girardin was overcome afresh with rage at the King s murder.
He brooded on the horrible event For days he gave way alternately
to profound depression and frenzied, impotent rage, and then again
to grief and despair. But he gave no outward indication of his anger
and sorrow, and resisted Monsieur Gerber's timorous efforts to in-
duce him to talk.

Only when Fernand came did he give vent to his distress and
bitter disillusionment. And now that he was letting himself go in the
presence of his son, his angry lament over the great injustice to the
King became grotesquely mingled in his mind with irritation against
the revolutionaries for all sorts of petty misdemeanors that were in-
significant compared with this one monstrous crime, but which con-
cerned him personally. If the mob did have to destroy the bronze
statues of the kings, they might at least have spared that of Henry
the Fourth, whom they themselves referred to as "the Good/ and
who had founded Ermenonville.

And now, finally, he also told his son how Robespierre and Saint-
Just had offended him when they came to visit Jean-Jacques's grave.
On that occasion he had felt it his duty to invite them to sit down at
table with him; but they had brusquely and contemptuously declined.
He had not told a soul of this insult, but it had rankled, and now
his anger was coming to the surface. Perhaps one could not prevent
the Jacobins from infesting Jean- Jacques's last resting place, but why
must they add insult to injury in being rude to him, the grave's
custodian?

Then he reverted to the grand issues and bewailed them in gran-
diloquent phrases.

Femand listened sympathetically, without interrupting him. Only
after a pause, did he gradually begin to defend the men of the Con-
vention. Granted that many of them were vain, uncouth, and violent.
But on the other hand their hatred of tyranny and their eagerness to
help the oppressed were beyond doubt sincere. The Jacobins' achieve-
ments outweighed their worst crimes. Privilege had been abolished,
inequality had ceased, the people's state, the Republic, had become
a reality.

But Girardin continued to carp. The reasonable voices of the hand-
ful of talented leaders were being drowned out by loudmouthed
demagogy. The real rulers were the mob of Paris: in other words,
stupidity and ignorance. For what their good friend Madame Roland

293

used to say was certainly true: the larger the mob, the longer their
ears.

But at this point Monsieur Gerber intervened. Monsieur le Mar-
quis was right: much of what was happening seemed arbitrary,
foolish, harsh and cruel. But if you considered the events of the past
years as a whole, you could not escape the joyful realization that in
spite of everything mankind was progressing according to the laws
of a grand, benign necessity. "In spite of everything, the course of
the revolution is following the teachings of Jean-Jacques," he cried.
"Do not let the bitter harshness of the revolution destroy your faith
in Jean-Jacques, messieurs!" he implored them, his eyes glowing
with an inner fire. His two listeners were silent. They realized with
something like consternation how very much Monsieur Gerber, al-
though so much younger, resembled the dead Master.

What everyone had foreseen happened. After the King's execution
the allies sent new and larger armies against his murderers. The
Republican armies were thrown back. Once more the enemy was
on the soil of France.

And now the Convention announced: 'We decree levee en masse.
We shall enlist every citizen in the service of the army/

Girardin was carried away by the lofty, fierily patriotic language in
which the decree providing for universal military service was ex-
pressed. But then he observed with mounting indignation what severe
measures the dictators of Paris were resorting to in order to round
up their recruits. They confiscated the property of those who failed
to report, arrested their parents, fined any commune which did not
hand over delinquents, And now Girardin was assailed by all the
painful qualms that a faithful disciple of Jean-Jacques could not help
feeling in the face of such a decree and the methods being used to
enforce it. Had not Jean-Jacques taught: 'The government may not
require the individual to sacrifice himself for the good of the many
if he is unwilling to do so? Were the rights of man then so equivocal?

Feraand defended the new decree. His father might cite Jean-
Jacques, but so with equal justification could the authors of universal
military service. For had not Jean-Jacques also taught: Injustice
committed for the benefit of mankind is justice? And as Fernand
sensed that for all his disapproval and hemming and hawing, his
father was secretly pleased by the Convention's bold temerity, he
went on, ** We are more courageous than the Americans were. General
Washington, too, demanded the introduction of universal military

294

service when their newborn freedom was threatened, but his Con-
gress would not grant it him. It has remained for us to realize the
dream of all republicans: to weld by coercion and appeal to reason
a whole people into a militant unity in the fight for freedom."

His father thought to himself, It is more difficult for me to be fair
about this new army than it is for my boy. He did not have to go
through my bitter personal experience. He does not know that this
new France of ours calls on everyone but rejects us, its most loyal
sons/ For he had still not told Fernand that the army had already
rejected him.

He was wrong. Fernand had had precisely the same experience.
Fernand had, on the strength of his previous military service, applied
for some sort of post as an officer, however humble, and he, too, had
been rejected. And like his father he had been silent about this hu-
miliating experience.

So they sat facing one another, estimating the new army's merits
and demerits, both full of bitterness over their rejection, both striving
to forget their resentment and to think only of the cause.

Though Fernand was unwilling to admit to his father that he had
any objections to the introduction of universal military service, he
made no secret of his doubts to Martin Catrou. They were the doubts
of a professional soldier. Could these new, untrained troops be effec-
tively absorbed into the existing army? Would these recruits, badly
drilled, or even not drilled at all, be able to stand up to the disci-
plined armies of the allies?

Indeed, the news from the front was bad enough. The soldiers
marched enthusiastically into battle with songs on their lips, but when
artillery fire began they fled in panic. Defeat followed defeat The
army of the north was pushed aside; once again the capital was
threatened. On top of this, large parts of the country were infuriated
by the conscription. The Vendee, half of the south, were in outright
revolt.

But Martin Catrou was as unperturbed as ever. He refused to
grant that these fresh blows were anything but a healthful fever that
was burning out all the slag, so that the people could be forged into
true unity.

"We are certain to win in the end," he insisted again and again.
"The army of the people will defeat the armies of the allied kings.
This is not mere faith, it is mathematical certainty. You should be
able to see that, Fernand. The tyrants are working only for themselves,

295

and improvising from one day to the next; the Republic, and the
Republic alone, is capable of conceiving long-range plans and putting
them into effect. Our soldiers alone are rational beings; they know
their freedom and happiness are at stake. Their opponents are poor
fools, half -animals, fighting for the right to keep their chains."

He paced ponderously back and forth among the furniture that
crammed his room. "What the revolution has lacked," he announced,
"is ardor, inspiration, the need to be even greater than great True
heroism springs only from despair. Now, when the revolution is fight-
ing for its existence, it will show what it is worth." He spoke the
words incisively, in his strident voice. In his enthusiasm red blotches
appeared on his forehead. Widow Catrou and Jeanne sat and listened,
the old woman chuckling with satisfaction, Jeanne with an ecstatic
expression.

"I have work to do," Martin announced abruptly, and sat down to
his papers. He was making it quite clear to Fernand that he regarded
it as a waste of time to explain the glory and grandeur of the Repub-
lic to one of so little faith.

He had in truth not a minute to spare. The Convention was work-
ing at full speed and without respite, and Martin sat on several com-
mittees. Even though it was engaged in fighting for its life., the
Republic, with dogged zeal, was introducing countless big and little
peacetime reforms. It drafted an uncompromising constitution. It de-
creed state support for the needy, free schooling, a uniform judicial
system for the entire country, compensation for the falsely accused. It
established a uniform and easily understood system of weights and
measures, introduced the telegraph and many other technical inven-
tions, set up scientific institutes. It established seven great museums.
One of these, the Museum of the Nation, was designed to contain
memorials of French history and scholarship; a second, the Louvre,
was to be devoted to works of art from all over the world.

From time to time Martin allowed his friend to attend sittings of
his committees, and the amount of work these committees got through
convinced Femand, more than any of Martin's fanatical speeches, of
the strength of the Republic. Draft legislation would be worked out
within extremely short time limits, yet at the same time with the
utmost carefulness. No words were wasted; arguments would be
discussed with icy heat And the Convention worked in the same
manner. It debated and passed with energy and speed measures
designed to alter for all time the structure of the state and the life

296

of the individual citizen alter these in the spirit of Jean-Jacques.
And the amazing thing was that these measures became a living
reality from the moment they were signed and sealed.

The new masters were inhuman, brutal. But Fernand had to grant
them this much: in an unbelievably short time, this small handful of
men had swept millions farther along the path of reason than at any
time since history began.

The war was fought by Convention, army, and the people with
the same clear-headed intensity. Political commissars were sent to the
front to make careful checks on the Republican virtue of the leaders
in the field. More generals were dismissed, new executions took place.
There remained in command only officers who combined Republican
reliability with military ability. The allies had rejoiced too soon. The
people's army gave no more ground. It reeled under the blows it re-
ceived, but it stood firm.

New measures were also taken against the enemies within.

"In the Republic/' Robespierre proclaimed, "whoever is not Repub-
lican is an alien, an enemy. He does not enjoy the protection of
society. The Republic owes this protection only to those citizens who
are loyal to it. To its enemies it owes death and destruction. That is
what Jean- Jacques taught. The revolution in being is war, and war
means the reign of terror. In war, terror is a necessary attribute of
virtue; without it virtue would be impotent. And what is terror?
Nothing else but summary, severe, inflexible justice."

Accordingly, laws of the utmost severity were passed against 'sus-
pects/ and courts with extraordinary powers were set up people's
courts, revolutionary tribunals to investigate these suspects and
enemies of the Republic and punish them with unexampled severity.

With his mind Fernand understood and accepted this iron dominion,
the right of the state, but in his heart he rejected it. At once attracted
and repelled, he saw the state as Janus-faced: in one aspect benevolent
and full of natural wisdom; in the other, hard and cruel. He loved
and admired the grandeur and goodheartedness of the populace, but
its brutality he abhorred.

He attended a sitting of the Paris Revolutionary Tribunal There, in
a drab hall, in their everyday clothing, sat the fifteen jurymen, citizens
of Paris workmen, artists, shopkeepers, artisans. At a green table
on a small platform sat the three judges. They wore the parapher-
nalia of their office, the plumed hat with the cockade, and diagonally
across their chests the tricolored ribbon with its heavy silver medal-

297

lion. Above their heads a tablet proclaimed the rights of man; to the
right of the tablet a bust of Lepeletier surveyed the hall, on the left
a bust of Jean-Jacques.

The defendant sat in a comfortable, if shabby, armchair. There was
no jailer in attendance, but National Guards were close at hand.

The defendant was a certain Menil-Clermont, a man of the lesser
nobility. He had left the country soon after the storming of the Bas-
tille, but had returned before expiration of the time limit established
by law, obviously in order not to forfeit his property. Now, however,
the new law against 'suspects' called for a rigorous examination of
everyone who had emigrated.

The first witness was a tailor by the name of Granval. He testified
that in a cafe known as The Poplar of Freedom the defendant had
made blasphemous remarks about the Republic and the Convention.
The witness declared he had been sitting at the next table and heard
him clearly. The defendant denied this and protested his loyalty to
the Republic. He had, he added, on a previous occasion had a quarrel
with the tailor over a violet-colored frock coat which Citizen Granval
had bungled in the cutting and then overcharged him for. A second
witness deposed that the defendant had tried to induce him to sell a
piece of land by offering him English money. Citizen Menil-Cler-
mont replied that it was not he who had offered English money, but
his partner in the deal, who had insisted on being paid in English
currency. The transaction was obscure. At any rate, it was certain that
the accused had once emigrated to England, and probable that he
had smuggled out a part of his fortune at the same time.

In grandiloquent language the public prosecutor declared that the
charges against Menil-Clermont of harboring Royalist sentiments and
having illegal dealings with the enemy had been fully proved and
asked that the defendant should be sentenced to four years' imprison-
ment for insulting the Republic, and, for twice conspiring with the
enemy, should twice be sentenced to death. The jury debated long
before finding Citizen Menil-Clermont guilty. He was sentenced to
death.

Fernand could not get the wretched affair of Menil-Clermont out
of his head. The men who had condemned him, these Duponts and
Durants, were presumably amiable men in their everyday lives, men
who would listen to reason. But the men who were sending him. to
the guillotine were not the Duponts and the Durants; they were the
voice of the Republic. The Republic was at war; the Republic had

298

detatched itself by deadly acts from the rest of the world, which was
vicious and enslaved, and the Republic exterminated all who were
in contact with that world.

So the jurymen on the revolutionary tribunals killed; the political
commissars in the army killed; the members of the Convention
killed they all killed in Jean- Jacques's name, sincerely convinced
that they were putting his teachings into practice. And tie bewilder-
ing thing was that they were justified in invoking him.

It was from Martin that Fernand had learned of Robespierre's
meeting with Jean-Jacques.

So Robespierre too, who was more powerful in France than any
king had ever been, and for whom Fernand could not tell whether
he felt hatred or admiration Robespierre too could call himself a
friend and disciple of Jean-Jacques.

Which of them would Jean-Jacques himself have recognized as the
better pupil himself, Fernand, or Maximilien Robespierre?

Chapter 10 The Suspects

MONSIEUR ROBINET had proved himself in the face of many perils
to be a man of courage, but now he lived in a permanent state of
anxiety. This criminally dangerous fanatic whom they had made dic-
tator, this Maximilien Robespierre, had exposed himself as far more
loathsomely despotic than any king of France had ever been, for he
was attacking the sanctity of private property. "We are not going to
allow the privileges of the nobility tabe replaced by the privileges of
the rich/ this bloodthirsty lunatic had declared. 'All this freedom and
equality of ours is a mockery unless the aim of all our laws and in-
stitutions shall be to put an end to the present unjust distribution
of property/

Then, to be sure, he had said reassuringly, 'Have no fear, all you
scavengers who think of nothing but money; I shall not lay hands on
your treasures/ But the capricious tyrant had foi gotten these laudable

299

promises by the next day, and amid the frenetic cheers of the Jaco-
bins had screamed out across the country phrases borrowed from
that other crazy fool who lay buried in Ermenonville: 'When, in a
democracy, a handful of people possess far more than the average
citizen, either the state breaks up altogether or else it ceases to be a
democracy/ And he had added the commentary: 'The rights of man
must be supplemented by measures controlling the ownership of
property, otherwise they would exist only for the rich, for profiteers
and speculators/

Monsieur Robinet felt as if Robespierre were addressing these
words to him personally, as if he were pointing the finger at him, a
harmless old man. He feared for his dear seventy-five-year-old life,
feared even more for Gilberte, the widow of an aristocrat who had
fought against the Republic. He no longer appeared in Paris at all;
he dwelt alone with Gilberte and the child, withdrawn from the world,
in a gardener's cottage at Latour, living the life of an old peasant.

He would have preferred to pack up at once and be off over the
border to Spain with Gilberte and the child.

But Gilberte refused. Perhaps her grandfather was right and they
were in danger, but in her heart she felt sure everything would turn
out all right. Fernand, too, felt strongly that she should on no account
allow her child to grow up among the children of the emigre aristoc-
racy. Marie-Sidonia should be brought up to lead a good, sensible life.
Fernand himself was certainly not contemplating flight, though the
law against suspects threatened him almost as much as herself. At
the same time she was aware that he was suffering over the excesses
and injustice. His face was becoming prematurely lined It even
seemed to her that his limp had grown more pronounced. But he
never voiced his doubts; rather he spoke with boyish exuberance of
how lucky they were to live in such an era.

Girardin often visited Latour, and Robinet came often to Ermenon-
ville. Robinet regarded his association with the suspect ci-devant as
risky; Girardin was annoyed with Robinet for allowing the fine old
Chateau Latour to go to ruin out of sheer funk. Each found the other
unbearably cantankerous, but they visited each other again and again.

There they would sit old, lonely, disconsolate. The philosophers
were to blame for it all, Robinet railed. Girardin pointedly blamed
greedy financiers for having brought France to her present pass by
blocking necessary reforms. On one thing they were agreed, that no

300

domination by priestlings and courtiers was as bad as domination by
the mob.

yffobinet remarked venomously that the nuisance could not possibly
last much longer. Even now in Paris they were scraping along only
by means of compulsory loans. It was unthinkable that a regime could
endure which threatened the very foundations of any community,
namely private property. In a few weeks the allied armies would
enter Paris and the curtain would fall on this grotesque farce.

Grotesque farce? Girardin demurred. Monsieur Robinet was going
too far. Granted, these fellows were barbarians; yet there was some-
thing of classical grandeur in the way they refused to accept defeat,
but enacted ever more severe measures and redoubled the violence
of their attacks on the enemy.

"Classical grandeur!" Monsieur Robinet repeated scathingly. "It's
madness, I tell you, monsieur. These classical heroes of yours belong
in the madhouse."

^ But at this point Girardin stood up and pointed his stick at Mon-
sieur Robinet: "And let me tell you, monsieur, I respect this madness,
as you are pleased to call it. I call it courage and patriotism."

Robinet shook his head over the stubborn old fool

He found it even weirder the way young Girardin stayed in the
burning house as if rooted to the spot - and moreover, he was to
blame for his Gilberte's refusal to move. When a person fought so
violently against his own interests he was positively courting disaster.

Once again Monsieur Robinet was right.

For a new mayor was appointed at Senlis in place of the genial
Leblanc. The new man was a certain Vincent Huret, a violent, fana-
tical revolutionary. It outraged him that the two Girardins, those
inveterate toadies and lackeys of the tyrant, should be regarded as
patriots. They were undoubtedly suspects by definition of the law.
A whole crowd of ci-devants were making Ermenonville their ren-
dezvous, doubtless in order to hatch conspiracies against the Republic.
Citizen Huret denounced the Girardins to the Committee for Public
Safety in Paris.

Since Huret made no secret of this patriotic action, Monsieur Robi-
net heard of the imminent peril. He was conscious of a certain satis-
faction and, mingled with all his fear and anxiety, a faint stirring of
hope. Now at last the Girardins would see reason and cross the bor-
der, and then he would be able to persuade Gilberte to flee also.

He drove at once to Ermenonville with Gilberte. Reported what

301

he had heard. Urgently advised the Girardins to clear out as quickly
as possible. He had agents in the Pyrenees who would help them to
enter Spain, he said.

"You are seeing ghosts, monsieur," was Girardin's proud reply. "Do
you seriously believe the Republic would lay hands on the man who
offered its originator his last refuge?'' And for all his brashness Mon-
sieur Robinet did not have the heart to tell the old fool that the
rumors involving him in Jean-Jacques's mysterious death were
being revived and were increasing the danger. He said only, "This
fellow Huret amounts to something in Paris. His denunciation will be
followed up, you may be sure. And once a man is in the mill it is not
so easy to get out. Be sensible!"

Fernand knew that, as once before, Robinet was giving good ad-
vice and that they ought to leave. But everything in him rebelled
against the idea. His whole life was by now bound up with his desire
to help in founding the new France. He could not run away from the
Republic his Republic. That would be defeat, collapse; his life
would be poisoned forever.

"Try to persuade your father, Fernand!" Gilberte pleaded. "You
know quite well that if they want to be nasty they can take anyone
they please under this new decree.**

It was true, Fernand had to admit But was not Gilberte herself
even more in danger?

"A former tax-farmer is surely just as suspect as a former marquis,"
he challenged Robinet, "and even more so the widow of the emigre
Courcelles. Take Gilberte to a safe place!" he demanded with sudden
impetuosity.

"And what about you?" Gilberte asked bluntly.

With something of an effort Fernand declared, "I must not go.
There are things for me to do here. I must prove that we are not
cowards. There are certain people to whom I must prove it!" He was
thinking of Martin.

He felt with painful clarity the ambiguousness of his position. He
was as devoted to the Republic as Martin or Saint-Just or this new
mayor of Senlis. But he was not permitted to serve it. The army re-
jected him, The government rejected him. He was a suspect. And
yet he understood the prevailing mistrust, and he accepted it. "I
believe in the people and their judgment," he said, speaking to
Gilberte rather than to the others. "I am not going to run away,
thereby fortifying unjust suspicions/'

302

"What sort of judgment do you expect from this rabble?" Monsieur
Robinet remonstrated desperately. "These people realize that by
tomorrow or the day after they will be dangling from the gallows as
they deserve. They have lost their nerve and they are venting their
senseless rage on all decent folk. Fernand, my dear boy, be sensible!
Go to Spain! Do not rush into your own destruction!"

Gilberte said no more. But her anxious eyes remained fixed on
Fernand. In a low, tormented, reluctant voice he repeated with bitter
determination what his friend Michel Lepeletier had said: "I am
heart and soul in favor of the revolution, even if it destroys me."

Two days later the mayor of Emienonville and the procureur ap-
peared at the chateau with several gendarmes. With some embarrass-
ment they explained to the dismayed major-domo that they wished
to speak to farmer and proprietor Girardin and to Citizen Girardin,
his son. The major-domo said, "I will announce you, messieurs," and
hastened to Girardin.

After a moment of bitter consternation the Marquis composed him-
self. He dressed with care, letting the officials cool their heels. At
last he entered the hall with his gold-knobbed cane in one hand and
in the other a copy of the Social Contract.

"Good day, messieurs," he said politely. "What can I do for you?"
"An unpleasant matter, Citizen Girardin," the mayor replied. "An ex-
tremely embarrassing business. Perhaps you would " He turned to
the procureur, who, pulling himself together, explained in a strained
official manner that they had come on orders from the Committe for
Public Safety in Paris. Since suspects had repeatedly visited Ermenon-
ville and there was a possibility that they might be in hiding there,
he and the mayor were obliged to search the house. Furthermore,
they had come to take both Girardins into custody, since doubts
existed as to their loyalty, and since their unsupervised presence and
activities constituted a threat to public welfare.

"Why, of course," Girardin retorted with bitter mockery. "I am
keeping a Royalist army hidden in my cellar and at the right moment
it will be let loose on the country. My house under suspicion!" he
burst out. "My house Jean- Jacques's last refuge! My house, which
has been open at all times and as transparent as a pane of glass.
Search it, then, messieurs! Get on with your business!"

The officials and gendarmes stood there looking foolish. "What
would you have us do, my dear Citizen Girardin?" the mayor apolo-
gized. "We are acting on orders." Girardin paid no attention. "I a

303

suspect!" he went on, and there was such pain In his voice that the
officials felt like criminals. "I a conspirator against the public wel-
fare! See here, gentlemen, what my great friend Jean-Jacques had to
say about your so-called public welfare/' He opened his copy of the
Social Contract and read: "'How much trouble all this talk of the
public welfare has already caused! For how much injustice it has
served as a pretext!'" He thrust the book under the officials' noses.

Embarrassed, the procureur drew the order of the Committee for
Public Safety out of his sleeve. "See for yourself, Citizen," he told
Girardin. "Here is the order. It says "for immediate attention,' under-
lined. So we must attend to it"

Girardin glanced absently at the seal of the Republic, on which,
ringed round by the words 'Freedom, Equality, Fraternity/ the God-
dess of Liberty sat enthroned. "I know you are not to blame,
messieurs," he said sadly. "But" and here he drew himself up and
pointed his cane at the officials "you can take this message to those
who sent you: To doubt the civic virtue of the man who afforded the
author of the Social Contract his last refuge is only possible for men
who are bad citizens themselves."

The officials made a cursory search of the house, and drew up a
report to the effect that they had found nothing suspicious. They
then left a few gendarmes there and informed Paris that the authori-
ties at Ermenonville were keeping Citizens Girardin, father and son,
at the disposal of the Committee for Public Safety.

304

PART FIVE

LA BOURBE

'DEATH THEN is NOUGHT TO us'

MAN IS GOOD

A LINK IN THE CHAIN

THE GODDESS OF REASON

'ARDUOUS ARE THE PATHS ALONG WHICH MERCY GUIDES us*

VOICES FROM THE MIRE
JEAN- JACQUES'S REVENGE

THE BODY SNATCHER
ERMENONVILLE DESERTED

TOMORROW, THE DAY AFTER, AND THE REST OF OUR LIVES
JEAN- JACQUES'S TRANSFIGURATION

Napoleon, at Ermenonville,
to Fernand de Girardin:

NAPOLEON: PerKaps it would Rave Been tetter
for tKe world if Jean-Jacques bad
never existed.

FERNAND: But, sire, tKen tKere would Kave
been no revolution. TKen you would
not be Emperor of tKe French.

NAPOLEON: PerKaps it would be better if I did
not exist eitKer.

GIRARDIN

TKe victory of tKe FrencK Revolution was tKe
victory of a new order of society. It was tKe vic-
tory of bourgeois property over feudal property,
of enligKtenment over superstition, of industry
over Keroic idleness, of civil rigfKts over medieval
privileges.

KARL MARX

Chapter 1 La Bourbe

WHILE GIRAKDIN was allowed to remain at CMteau Ermenonville
under guard, Fernand was taken to Paris for imprisonment. The jail
he was consigned to was officially called Port-Libre but was known
colloquially as *La Bourbe/ The Swamp, after the quarter of the
city in which it lay. Fernand was brought into the building by way
of the Jean- Jacques Rousseau Steps a strange way for him to enter
a prison he thought, and almost smiled.

The inmates of La Bourbe were not badly treated. Posted on every
landing was a decree of the One and Indivisible Republic stating
that, until sentenced, prisoners had the same right to humane treat-
ment as all other citizens. The Commune of Paris which was charged
with the administration of prisons took these words seriously. In con-
trast to most buildings in Paris, a great many of which had suffered
damage in the revolutionary fighting, the whole of this large building
with its two wings was in good condition and kept well heated. It
was surrounded by a large garden and had a fine view of the Obser-
vatory and the open country beyond. The inmates enjoyed every
freedom possible within its four walls. They were free to pursue their
callings, whether they were tailors, hairdressers, cobblers, or clock-
makers. Any complaints concerning conditions in the prison were
heard by the head warden, Citizen Haly, who listened patiently
and did his best to remedy matters.

Fernand shared a dormitory with seven other prisoners in the sec-
tion called 'fCgalite/ They were quick to accept him and give him
what help they could, tipping him off on prison life. They advised
him to supplement the diet, though it was not at all bad, with provi-
sions which he could have sent in from outside. He was shown an
enormous raw leg of mutton which hung in the window.

The prisoners held in La Bourbe were of every variety high
aristocrats and beggars, Royalists and democrats. Many of them were
people of no consequence, picked up here or there. A good number,

307

however, were persons of rank and reputation in Paris and through-
out the country. There were some whose names and accomplishments
were famous the world over. The roster of names made Fernandas
head swim; it seemed that there must be thousands locked up here.
But when he asked Warden Haly how many prisoners there were he
was astonished to receive the answer, "Right now you number five
hundred and seventeen."

This little world was noisy, colorful, and of a bewildering diversity.
There was Boivin, a talkative old bore who took everyone aside to
confide that he was secretly a Royalist but that he had the stupid
authorities well hoodwinked; they took him for a mouton, an informer.
Then there was Citizeness Prevot, ninety-one years old, who was
suspected of counterrevolutionary tendencies because she had an
income of a hundred thousand livres. Day after day she announced
in her shaky voice that she had survived many blows of fate, nor
would this be the last of them. There was the good Doctor Dupontet,
who not only strove to restore the sick to health but pursued the
healthy with advice of all kinds. There was lackey Cuny, who went
around in a state of deep dejection, being accused of having stolen
from his former master, and who finally cut his own throat, where-
upon his innocence was established. There was Citizen Dorival, a
hawker at the fair at Saint-Germain, who went about in the uniform
of a general and told colorful tales from his past. He was called 'the
great Tralala' and was jokingly said to have flown in a Montgolfier,
an air balloon, from the Sahara Desert to La Bourbe. There was Gille,
the eternal optimist who crept about at night inscribing encouraging
messages on the walls to cheer up the others. Twice already he had
been sharply reprimanded by the prison authorities and even warned
by his fellow inmates that such antics would finally bring him to the
guillotine, but he could not make himself stop. There was Citizeness
Carlier, whose swollen belly was rumored to be due to a false preg-
nancy, but who bore a child after all. There was Citizen Duvivier,
who had ardently taken up the revolutionary cause soon after the
storming of the Bastille. However he had the royal lilies tattooed on
his back and had therefore incurred suspicion. He was an elegant
and handsome fellow who paid court to all the ladies. And though
obviously a philanderer, clearly the ladies were unable to resist the
invitation to be shown the tattooed lilies. There was Robin, the former
deputy. His political activities in the first National Assembly were
long since ancient history, but he continued to defend them with

308

embittered eloquence. There were streetwalkers who conducted
themselves with primness and reserve, and decent housewives who
flaunted their charms. There was the celebrated writer Florian,
author of Numa and Guillaume Tell, and Robert Vigee, the lyric poet
whose verses everyone knew by heart. There was Citizen Desjardins,
a complacent man with an easy manner who preached confidence to
the despairing and then suddenly threw himself out of a window.
And in the midst of all these people the hypochondriacs and opti-
mists, old men and children, the quarrelsome and the peaceable
innumerable dogs, both large and small, ran barking. For at least
half of the prisoners had brought their dogs with them.

Whenever the weather permitted they were allowed outdoors. In
the evening they assembled in the large common room, or 'salon.'
Inscriptions on the walls proclaimed: The ideals which all true pa-
triots cherish remain the same in every situation: Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity/ Or again: 'The free man loves freedom, even when he
is deprived of it/ Under it was posted tlie bill of fare for the following
day.

The salon was the place for all kinds of social activities. There
were games of chess, tricktrack, and cards. The women made lint,
some people read, someone played the violin or gave a recitation,
others made gallant conversation with the ladies. The daily happen-
ings in La Bourbe were given a thorough review. Every day brought
something of interest, and the prisoners' imaginations, stimulated by
confinement, painted the garish events in even more garish colors.

Every evening someone would read aloud from the Moniteur, the
government's official organ, and there would be a general political
discussion. Though it was common knowledge that there were a
number of moutons among the prisoners, no one was overly cautious.
The debates between democrats, moderates, and those whose Royal-
ist sympathies were hardly concealed became quite violent now and
then. At such times the more discreet ones would try to pour oil on
the troubled waters, or else would withdraw from the argument.
Occasionally the conversation would reach a high level and wax
philosophical. But frequently it would end in a vulgar squabble and
a general exchange of home truths of a personal character,

Winter came. The snowfall was greater than in past years and
there were merry scenes in the garden. The prisoners rode about on
little sleds, snowmen were built and snowball fights fought, dogs and
children enjoyed themselves noisily.

309

But for all the apparent gaiety and color of life at La Bourbe its
inmates knew that they were under the shadow of the axe. The fact
was kept constantly before their eyes. Prisoners were fetched away
daily to appear before the revolutionary tribunals, and in two cases
out of three the trials ended in death sentences that were carried
out within twenty-four hours. The population of La Bourbe changed
rapidly.

When the hand of fate struck, when the summons to the tribunal
came, depended on the whim of a judge or a juryman, of a deputy
town councilor or a petty clerk, or perhaps even on no more than the
file number of a document. La Bourbe was an anteroom to the
guillotine. The waiting grated on the nerves.

The prisoners endeavored to deny the danger. They threw them-
selves into the daily routine at La Bourbe, took up social life and
made much of their friendships and little feuds. Inner tension dis-
charged itself in foolish squabbling. They quarreled over imaginary
affronts and injuries, over inequitable distribution of food, and similar
trifles. Each party would try to recruit sympathizers, witnesses, and
referees. Sides would be taken on every issue. The fact that they
could not escape from each, other's company heightened the general
irritability.

There were absurd rivalries growing out of the grotesque desire
to shine in the pathetic company in which they found themselves.
For example, the salon was the scene for evening parlor games; one
of the favorites was the composing of verses based on peculiar and
farfetched rhymes. The prisoners included men whose poetry was
famous all over Europe, such as Florian or Vigee. They took part in
these foolish games, first in the spirit of fun, then with passionate
seriousness. As a rule, however, it was not they who won but a certain
lawyer called Delamelle who had no literary reputation whatever.
The poets took their defeat hard.

There were two famous actors, Fleury and Dugazon, from the
Theatre frangais. The battle for leading roles which had been fougjit
venomously between them had been the talk of Paris for the j^.st
ten years. Now they were seen on terms of friendship, frequently
arm in arm. In the salon it did not take much coaxing to get them to
recite. But if only one of them was given a chance to perform, then
the resentment of the other was past concealing. Once, after such a
slight, Monsieur Fleury came into Fernandas dormitory, twisted the
conversation until he could insert an anecdote concerning a perform-

310

ance of Mithridate and proceeded to recite the famous soliloquy.

Yet all efforts to banish the thought of the dark fate hanging over
them were of small avail. It was there, breaking through again and
again. And in their hearts most of them were preparing for a coura-
geous exit.

Monsieur de Nicolai, who had been a minister in the cabinets of
Louis die Fifteenth and Louis the Sixteenth, was summoned as he
sat at table. "Let the gendarmes wait till I have finished my dinner,"
he said. He ordered his coffee and liqueur as usual. Doctor Du-
pontet asked him if he would like his rheumatic shoulder massaged.
"Thank you," answered Monsieur de Nicolai, "but it would scarcely
be worth while. The trouble has spread to my neck now, and when
the one goes the other will go with it."

Such brave wit was highly esteemed in La Bourbe. In fact the
prisoners could not pass up an opportunity for smart repartee even
when they knew their remarks might cost them dear. Colonel Lepalu,
for example, complained to Councilor Dupommier in the presence of
other prisoners that he had already been waiting for almost a year
to discover what charges were being brought against him. "Patience,
Citizen," the Councilor told him soothingly. "Justice is just. This de-
tention won't last for ever. Have patience!" "Patience is a virtue for
donkeys, not soldiers," retorted the colonel. After that he did not have
long to wait; within a week he disappeared.

Citizen Delamelle, the lawyer, was called while in the midst of one
of those rhyming games at which he so excelled. He tarried to finish
his verses, highly pleased that his usual brilliance was in no way
dimmed by the sudden news. Everyone admired his composition. He
thanked the company, and observed to the poet Florian, who had
taken part in the game without success, "Tomorrow evening you will
have less competition, monsieur." To the ladies he expressed he hope
that the game would continue to amuse them. He bowed and de-
parted, forever.

The people in La Bourbe took a lively interest in how each individ-
ual comported himself on the way to the scaffold. Most of them
remained calm. Almost all had followed the example of the ancients
in preparing last words, and many actually managed to deliver these
last words with composure.

Allain, the baker's apprentice, was proud of belonging to the
canaille and liked to ridicule the aristocrats and their fancy manners.
But once when a report came in on the courageous bearing of yet

311

another aristocrat on his last journey, Allain was heard to remark
with a mixture of mockery and respect, "You ci-devants never learned
how to live decently, but you do know how to die/'

Chapter 2 'Death Then Is Nought to

FERNANDA WHOSE accounts had been blocked, noticed with concern
that he was beginning to be short of money. Equality was all very
well, but there was no doubt that even in La Bourbe money could
procure comforts and prestige. The artisans in the place, the tailors,
shoemakers, hairdressers, and clockmakers served the well-to-do more
rapidly and efficiently; they expected to be paid not according to the
value of the work, but according to the income of the client. Moreover,
many fellow prisoners asked financial help from Fernand, who was
known to be a rich man, and he did not like disappointing them.

So that it came most opportunely when a considerable sum of
money was handed to him on the sly, with an indication that Mon-
sieur Robinet was the sender.

In general Fernand was not often troubled by thoughts of Latour
and Ermenonville and life outside. Curiously enough what reminded
him most strongly of the past were the numerous dogs. From memo-
ries of Lady and fat, snorting little Pompon his thoughts would turn
to the people who were near and dear to him.

Yet when he was troubled by melancholy recollections they were
quickly blotted out by the rather absurd little joys and sorrows of
everyday life at La Bourbe. For he took just as lively an interest as
everyone else in the daily doings in the prison. He would resent it
with the rest when there was bean soup again for dinner, would be
as animated as they in discussing the pleasant and unpleasant charac-
teristics of the warden Besnard, would join them in poking fun at
Citizen BoyenvaFs embarrassing habit, when someone was telling a
good story, of interrupting and ruining the point. When he came off
well at the rhyming game in the salon of an evening he would have a

312

feeling of gratification, and he was often sorry when the nine o'clock
bell rang and the salon had to be cleared.

There were pretty and even beautiful women in the prison, and
with some of them it was possible to conduct an agreeable conver-
sation. Men and women could meet each other without restriction,
and Citizen Duvivier had no difficulty in showing the ladies his
tattooed lilies. Circumstances made privacy impossible and induced
a certain shamelessness; but good manners were observed.

A new head warden was appointed a rough, square-set, upright
man by the name of Thirion. He made a speech to the assembled
inmates of La Bourbe: "Citizens! All of Paris is cracking jokes about
this institution of ours. They say it deserves its name, La Bourbe, that
it is nothing but an enormous brothel. I have been installed here to
see that you don't escape; your morals are none of my business. But
I would like to draw your attention to one aspect of the matter. Many
of you have reason to expect a speedy end at the hands of Republican
justice. If I were in their place I would devote my last days to the pur-
suit of virtue rather than of idle pleasure. I wish you good morning/'

In spite of this admonition there continued to be a good deal of phi-
landering and gallantry in La Bourbe, a certain amount of jealousy,
and perhaps a little love also. The enamored couples were more
than ready to regard their relationships as grand passions, even if
these were little more than an escape from the evils of their morrow.

Fernand regarded the amorous activities that went on around
him with understanding and amusement. Sometimes he was horrified
by it, however. Looking at his fellow prisoners he saw the mark of
death upon their faces; the men and women who were dallying and
making love turned to dancing skeletons before his eyes. This did not
stop him from participating in their enjoyment.

After a few weeks he found he had adapted himself to life in La
Bourbe just like the others. Completely taken up with trivial cares
and petty curiosities he would wander restlessly about the great
building and in the extensive gardens. His wounded foot was giving
him more trouble; yet Doctor Dupontefs advice that he should exer-
cise it as much as possible was to him a welcome excuse to go from
one prisoner to another like everyone else.

Fundamentally, however, he felt he was better than the others, and
when on occasion he found himself behaving like them he was con-
scious of surprise, almost of shame.

He really was different, in spite of all, and there were days when

313

the enforced companionship of his fellow men was torment In such
moods the society of others, which normally he sought after, would
suddenly become unbearable. He even felt distaste for people whom
he especially respected and liked. Nowadays he could understand
why Jean- Jacques, for all his love of people, should have fought so
desperately for solitude.

On days like these Fernand would do his best to isolate himself.
He would go out to a garden bench with a book, implying as clearly
as he could that he wished to be alone. The hint was not taken. Not
only would he be distracted by the loud conversation of passers-by,
but people made no bones about addressing him directly. They came
to him with all sorts of confidences, asked him to settle some dispute,
or expected him to take sides. Fernand noticed that the faintest at-
tempt to withdraw offended the others and was considered a sign of
pride and selfishness.

Even at night he could not be alone. He slept with seven others.
Visitors from other cells would come. Candles would be lit. The
inhabitants of La Bourbe were afraid of sleep; they did everything
they could to avoid it. They would rather talk of things that had
been discussed a thousand times already. They knew that their days
and nights were running out, that each night might be their last.
Still they preferred to 11 it with idle chatter than with solitary reflec-
tion. And when at last all was really dark and quiet, then Fernand
found the anxieties of the others beginning to weigh upon him. For
at night the fear of death, suppressed by day, found voice. The pris-
oners talked in their sleep and tossed in their beds. It was plain that
their dreams were bad.

Sometimes as he lay on his own fairly comfortable bed, Fernand
too was overcome with fear. That brave phrase: 'The revolution is
right, even if it destroys me/ was of no avail. He was gripped by the
fear of death as never before in the bitter nights of the American
campaign. He was filled to bursting with rage at the senselessness
of what was being inflicted upon him. He felt suffocated. He gasped
for air.

Also detained in La Bourbe at this time was a certain Monsieur
de Riouffe, a quiet elderly man who had devoted a large part of his
time to translating Lucretius into French. The translation was long
since finished. It had been published, then republished in an im-
proved version. It had been gone over and polished a tenth and
last time. And now, undisturbed by the noise of the prison, Monsieur

314

de Riouffe was going over it for the eleventh and really final time,
touching it up, perfecting it. His one anxiety was that he might be
summoned before this definitive edition was ready. He had grown
particularly attached to Fernand, who was a good Latinist Every
other day Riouffe would come to him in happy excitement over a
pretty nuance he had just hit on.

Again and again Citizen Honore Riouffe would recite Lucretius
both the Latin original and the French translation. His favorite
passages were those clear, profound verses concerning death. These
verses aim to prove that the soul dies with the body and that it is
therefore senseless to fear death, for it leads us to nothingness, where
there is no more pain. Once dead we can no more participate in the
sufferings of the future than we can feel the despair of those days
when Hannibal stood at the gates.

Nil igitur mors est, ad nos neque pertinet hilum
Quandoquidem natura animi mortalis habetur.

Death then is nought to us, nor does it concern us a whit
Inasmuch as the nature of the mind is but a mortal possession,

Fernand, lying in bed unable to sleep, would repeat the lines to
himself, the strong, deep Latin and the slow, smooth, undulating,
lulling French. He felt himself plunging into a vast black wave of
sleep, felt his self -awareness melting as his body sank away from him.
For a moment or two he was able to taste the bliss of entering into
nothingness, into sleep.

Chapter 3 Man Jjr Good

A DETATGHMENT of ten men of the National Guards had taken up
their quarters in Chateau Ermenonville. Their leader was Corporal
Grappin, In accordance with their orders they did not let the suspect
out of their sight. A guard was stationed in Girardin's room, and he
could not sleep or even relieve himself in private,

315

Apart from this, the soldiers of the guard were amiable fellows.
They inquired after Girardin's state of health, spoke their minds
about the weather, and did not take it amiss if he replied monosyUab-
ically or not at all.

He was allowed no visitors. Nor could he write or receive letters.
He was however permitted to walk in the gardens. He visited Jean-
Jacques's grave daily. One of the guards would row him across the
lake while another sat under Jean-Jacques's willow tree.

At this time Girardin underwent a profound and shocking change.
He visibly deteriorated. He who had always held himself erect, who
looked every inch the soldier, now shuffled along with bowed shoul-
ders. He gazed into space or at the ground, and jumped if one of the
guards addressed him.

Why should all this have burst upon him?

He had been aware that there were dangerous elements in Jean-
Jacques. Again and again, burningly clear, there came to him a mem-
ory which he had done his best to erase, the memory of a marginal
note in the manuscript of the Confessions. 'Thelo, thelo manenai I
am willing, I am willing to rage,' Jean- Jacques had written painstak-
ingly in Greek characters. Yes, Girardin should have recognized the
element of danger in Jean-Jacques, of night and madness. He had
recognized it and had concealed his knowledge of it from himself and
from others. But now that madness had seized the whole country.

He was horrified by the turn his thoughts had taken. Was it fair to
blame Jean-Jacques for the insane violence of the Parisian tyrants?
Was he not being disloyal to the Master in harboring such thoughts?

He stopped before Jean- Jacques's bust. The failure was his, Girar-
din's. He had failed as custodian of Jean- Jacques when he was still
alive, and failed even more as custodian of the dead man's heritage.
What was happening now was retribution. He was pursued by the
Furies because he had failed.

He was afraid he might go mad himself. He began holding debates
with himself. 'Truth springs from thesis and antithesis/ he told him-
self, raising his finger in the gesture of a schoolmaster. Or he would
quote with a sly sarcasm that other saying of Jean- Jacques's: 'Man
is good/ The guards shook their heads over the crazy old fellow.

His concern for Fernand tormented him even more than his own
fate. Mastering his disinclination he asked the guards what had hap-
pened to Fernand. They shrugged their shoulders; they knew
nothing.

316

After a week Monsieur Gerber was allowed to see him. "What has
happened to Fernand?" was Girardin's first question. "He is said to
be still in prison/' Gerber reported. "He is alive?' Girardin anxiously
sought reassurance. "Yes," replied Gerber simply. "Monsieur Robinet
says so, and he is well informed.*'

Gerber began to talk with Girardin in German. The guards at first
objected, but then they let them talk. Girardin was monosyllabic like
a sulky, obstinate child. Gerber sighed, but continued to accompany
him on his walks.

On one such walk Gerber, as if only for his own pleasure, began to
recite from his beloved Lucretius: '"All of mans life is lived out in
darkness and ignorance, and we, like children at night, are fearful by
day of shadows and ghosts whose terrors are no more real than the
ghosts that children dread.' " Girardin responded for the first time in
several days. "Their terrors are more real," lie observed with quiet
grimness. Then, after a pause, he added crustily, "Perhaps you could
help me read Lucretius, monsieur. I am not sure that my Latin is up
to reading it alone/'

Thus both Fernand in La Bourbe and Girardin at Ermenonville
sought consolation in Lucretius' s verses. In these hard and bitter times
many people in the land read the writings of Lucretius. Four new
editions of his work On the Nature of Things were published in Paris
in a single year.

Over and over again Monsieur Gerber cautiously tried to make
Girardin talk of his own lot. But the Marquis retorted sharply that
there was no sense in talking; indeed, not even Jean- Jacques's words
had been fruitful; they had brought harm. Monsieur Gerber gave him
a sad, reproachful look. "Am I not right?" Girardin asked more gently.
To which Monsieur Gerber answered quietly but firmly, "No, sir, you
are not right. Even in your circumstances I cannot let you abuse the
noble wine simply because some people have got drunk on it."

That day Girardin tried to work again for the first time in a long
while. He returned to his essay *On the Ratification of Laws by the
General Will/ The work took hold of him. A few days later he asked
the faithful Gerber, "Tell me, shall I expand my essay into a major
work 'The Significance of the General Will in the Body of Jean-
Jacques's Teaching"? Gerber looked up happily. "Now you have
fought your way through, sir. Now you will feel as I feel: The Temples
were turned into stables, but the gods live on. Oh, I am so happy."

At first Girardin was diverted by his work. But then again he had

317

hours of brooding depression. He was once more permitted to read
the newspapers and the reports cast him back into terrible despair*
He read of the butcheries committed by the Royalists in the provinces
and of the even more dreadful ones decreed by the Convention In
order to deter the rebels. He read of the destruction of whole cities.

He read that Queen Marie Antoinette had been executed after a
brief, grotesque parody of a trial. The news was late in reaching him.
For more than a week now the Queen's corpse was being consumed
in the pit of quicklime.

Her death stirred him more deeply than other, wilder, more baleful
happenings. With great vividness he remembered the Queen's visit
to Jean-Jacques's grave. She had decked the grave with wild flowers,
thereby helping to keep his memory unsullied. She had not been a
clever woman, Marie Antoinette of Hapsburg. But pain and suffering
sharpened the wits he was discovering that much for himself. Had
she realized, in her last hours, what a part Jean- Jacques's works and
legend had played in bringing her to the guillotine?

Then came the day when Girardin's warden, Corporal Grappin, a
cheerful grin spread across his face, announced, "Good news, ci-
devant, here's a visitor for you/' And there in the doorway stood old
Robinet

Girardin longed to turn the importunate fellow away. But at the
same time he was painfully aware of how few people he had left.
There were only three: the dead Jean-Jacques, the living Gerber, and
his dear son Fernand who was neither dead nor living. Under the cir-
cumstances Girardin should welcome even a Robinet.

For Monsieur Robinet, too, the past weeks had been unpleasant.
Gilberte lived in the vacancy of despair. She declared herself to blame
for the Girardins* misfortunes; it should have been her duty to per-
suade Fernand to escape. She would hear no word of reason or con-
solation. Robinet fretted and grieved at his helpless position. He saw
no way of coming to the aid of the Girardins. He could only be thank-
ful the bloodthirsty Parisians had not got hold of him. He felt as old
as the hills.

But he pulled himself together. A Robinet did not let himself be
defeated so easily. He began by finding a way of getting through to
the suspect ci-devant. He not only dressed up as an old peasant, he
was one, and Corporal Grappin and his National Guards, peasants
themselves, allowed him to pass.

Wrinkling his already wrinkled face in a crafty smile, he stood

sia

before Girardin. "Qa y est" he said. "So here we are." And looked at
the seigneur of Ermenonville. The Marquis made an effort to recover
Ms military bearing but to no avail. He struck Robinet as old and
feeble, and Robinet was smugly aware that he was younger than the
ci-devant.

Girardin inquired hungrily after Fernand. Yes, Robinet had news
of him. Fernand was still in La Bourbe, and of all the remand prisons
La Bourbe was the best. And Robinet had taken the liberty of send-
ing some money in to the young Count - a few thousand livres.
"I shall repay the sum as soon as possible/* Girardin said haughtily,
but added almost immediately with genuine emotion, "I am very
grateful to you, monsieur."

Robinet repeated his visits. Gilberte wanted to go with him. He
almost had to restrain her by force. That would surely be the end.
A pretty young woman could not help attracting attention. She would
be endangering herself and him and making Girardin s position worse
than ever.

On the other hand Robinet sometimes brought his great-grand-
daughter Marie-Sidonia on these excursions. The old man and the
child had become great friends. The little girl had grown accustomed
to going about in the simple clothes of a peasant child. She felt at
ease in them. The only thing that remained to her of her former life
was the little dog Pompon, old, fat, and lazy. The old man and the
child usually came in a country cart loaded with potatoes or similar
produce. Robinet pretended to be on his way to market and stopping
to say good day to a friend.

The guards were fond of children, and liked to banter with Marie-
Sidonia. Once they were at table when Robinet arrived. Several of
them were from the south of France, and they were eating rabbit
stew, strongly flavored with garlic. They offered a plateful to Robinet
and the child. The old man enjoyed his portion, but Marie-Sidonia de-
murred, unused to such highly seasoned dishes. Laughingly the men
insisted that the child eat and also drink of their cider. They threat-
ened that otherwise they would not let them into the chateau. Finally
the child forced herself to eat, to the men's great enjoyment. She
vomited, which made the joke still better.

Girardin, hearing of the incident, was plunged into even deeper
melancholy.

Robinet tried to cheer him up. ''This evil dream will pass, Marquis,*'
he told him, "Faster than you think. Believe the words of an old man

319

who has seen a good deal of life. And when that day comes," lie
went on, half in jest, half seriously, with a sly smile, "then I am going
to ask a great favor of you. For then I shall restore CMteau Latour,
and you must help me lay out the gardens in your style. Back to
Nature, my dear Marquis!"

Chapter 4 A Link in the Chain

To HIMSELF AND his friends Robespierre quoted a saying of Montes-
quieu's which Jean- Jacques had also cited: Terhaps posterity will find
that we have not shed blood enough, and have spared too many of
the enemies of freedom/ This same Robespierre who had voted for
the abolition of the death penalty was now compelled to use the
weapon of terror with increasing ruthlessness. For it seemed that
closer investigation was revealing more and more people, hitherto
regarded as harmless, as enemies of the Republic. Those who were
too moderate were enemies, and those who were too radical were
enemies. Enemies were those with too much faith, those who had too
little. With grim imagination Robespierre scrutinized men's heads and
the opinions they might hold.

The first to be dealt with were the leaders of the moderates in the
Convention the Girondists. Twenty-one in number, they were
brought before the court, condemned, guillotined.

Newcomers to La Bourbe told of the Girondists' last days how
bravely and with what eloquence they had defended themselves be-
fore the tribunal, not thinking of themselves but only of the Republic;
how on the eve of their execution they had held a symposium which
recalled the banquets of the noblest Athenians; how they had sung
the anthem of the revolution as they walked to the scaffold.

Fernand listened eagerly to these reports. He had known nearly
all of the twenty-one; some had been his friends. These so-called
'moderates' had not been moderate at all. In the Legislative Assembly
to which Fernand himself had belonged they had formed the radical

320

wing. They were the men who had framed those bold, proud clauses
on which the constitution stood. They had declared war on the mon-
archies of Europe. These men had never, Fernand was convinced,
let cowardice creep into their hearts. True disciples of Jean-Jacques,
they had had the most luminous minds in France.

But those others, who had sent them to their deaths were not
they, too, loyal followers of Jean- Jacques? And would the verdict of
history declare the victims or the killers to have been the better
disciples?

The men now ruling, Robespierre and Saint-Just, condemned the
Girondists for being halfhearted because they had debated with their
political opponents instead of killing them. It was certainly true that
the Girondists could not have brought about the unity of the Repub-
lic, for their justice was too just. It was true that the Girondists had
failed. And Robespierre and Saint- Just branded those who failed as
enemies of the country and exterminated them. They exterminated
all the nation's enemies, even those who meant well. Their logic was
the guillotine. Perhaps a revolution had no other.

Fernand himself he now admitted it belonged, at bottom, to
the Girondists.

Of course he had vehemently maintained that the revolution must
come from the people. But inwardly he had hoped, just like all the
other educated men, that the revolution could be brought about from
above, without the people. Yes, in spite of all his protestations and
declarations of love, what he had inwardly felt for the people had
been benevolent contempt, just like the others. True/ he reflected, 'we
of the educated classes meant well, but we were condescending. We
patted the people on the back but we never made any attempt to
learn the people's language. We imposed on them our classical heroes,
our Gracchus, Spartacus and Cincinnatus, and smiled indulgently
when the people failed to understand. And now the people have
thrown us unto the dung heap. With good reason. For our highly
cultivated cleverness has proved ineffectual. The revolution has been
carried through, and history has been made, by the clumsy, primitive
wisdom of the people/

No, Fernand thought, he had failed to understand the people. He
had not understood Jean- Jacques either. Jean-Jacques, though iso-
lated by his genius, had not lost touch with the people; he had re-
mained humble for all his knowledge of his own greatness. Humility
was something that was denied to himself, Fernand thought. He

321

had arrogantly imprisoned himself in his own ego. He had perhaps
subdued his pride of birth, but only in order to put spiritual pride
in its place.

More prisoners, of a new type, were being brought to La Bourbe.

For after the suppression of the Girondists, Robespierre had ac-
quired the undisputed leadership and he and his followers clam-
bered unfaltering up the steep and narrow path of virtue. He had
long been offended by the excesses of the fanatical rationalists. He
had had to stand helplessly by while these creatures forced the
Convention to sanction their blasphemous "Cult of Reason/ As Jean-
Jacques's faithful disciple, Robespierre believed devoutly in the Su-
preme Being. Anyone who denied the Supreme Being was denying
Jean- Jacques, the father of the Republic. Now that he had the power,
Robespierre declared atheism to be aristocratic, vicious, counter-
revolutionary. He set to work to repress these energumenes, these
enrages, these fanatics who were inciting the people against the
Supreme Being.

Some of these enemies of the Republic were brought to La Bourbe
to await trial. There was Deputy Riquet, for example. The Republic
was doomed, he angrily observed, if it was going to be ruled by
people who trusted in a Supreme Being instead of using their own
admittedly limited powers of reason. Then there was Citizen Bans-
set, who went about swearing that as for that wretched halfhearted
Robespierre with his middle-of-the-road mediocrity and Ms guillo-
tine, he could kiss his arse.

At this time there also turned up in La Bourbe men who had a
peculiarly ugly connection with some of the prisoners. For these
newcomers, themselves but recently in power, had been responsible
for sending these prisoners to La Bourbe, and had brought relatives
of other prisoners to trial. And now here they all were, shut up to-
gether, the persecutors and their victims. The tension in La Bourbe
increased; in the confined space of the salon, the well-mannered,
gentle ironic old world collided with the vehement, violent, ill-man-
nered new one.

To La Bourbe came also Deputy Chaplaine, the former Capuchin,
Widow Rousseau's patron. He had long been a thorn in Robespierre's
side. He was chiefly to blame for the Cult of Reason. His lewd,
blasphemous eloquence had given rise to the most outrageous orgies.
Nor was it only his militant, treasonous atheism that Robespierre
abhorred; he felt a puritanical hatred for the obscene, disorderly man

322

himself, reproaching him for his personality and conduct even more
than for his ideas, Chaplaine, he charged, had embezzled money
during his liquidation of the East India Company and in other official
capacities and had enriched himself by appropriating a number of
costly relics when the royal graves were destroyed.

And now Chaplaine was in La Bourbe awaiting trial.

He complained indignantly to the other prisoners about Robes-
pierre's idiotic jealousy, about the ingratitude of the Republic and
the fickleness of the people. This former preacher was a marvelous
orator; whenever he spoke, a crowd would gather and listen to him
enthralled. On one such occasion one of the prisoners, a peddler sus-
pected of Royalist tendencies, crossed himself and said, ''You have
edified and consoled me, comrade," and offered him a piece of his
sausage.

Chaplaine noticed that he had attracted Fernand's attention. He
tried to explain himself, to justify himself to Fernand. Unlike most
of the leaders of the Republic he had not let his humanitarianism
be withered by rigid adherence to theories. He enumerated the many
people whose lives he had saved, even enemies of the Republic like
Abb6 Sicard. Sicard had written that wonderful essay on Augustine's
use of Latin, and the truth was that he, Chaplaine, had always had a
weakness for intellectual achievement. That was precisely why this
monomaniac Robespierre was trying to deprive him not only of his
life but of his posthumous fame. Because Robespierre was incapable
of following him onto the heights of a humaneness which was the
more glorious for having dispensed with God, he accused him of
base passions, common greed. All right, he had accepted gifts works
of art that would otherwise have been lost, fine books, perhaps some-
times even money. What of that? Had he thereby sacrificed one iota
of his ideas? Had it been greed which had prompted him to storm
the Christian heavens and turn out the Christian gods? "Are the
truths I proclaim any less true," he asked indignantly, "because I
love life and a certain luxury and plenty? I am no puritan. Books and
pictures warm my heart. What will have become of those noble ob-
jects," he lamented, "with which I have filled my house? The barbar-
ians do not appreciate them. Even now one of them may be wiping
his behind with paper on which Jean-Jacques's hand has inscribed
immortal words."

When Chaplaine asserted that he had saved people's lives in
moments of generosity, he was not lying. He did not mention, how-

323

ever, that in moments of petty malevolence he had also had people
killed. He had been thin-skinned from childhood; in his thirst for
revenge he overlooked not even the smallest slight, and when he
came to power many had had to pay dear for wrongs they had done
him and already half forgotten. There was Justice of the Peace
Lariviere, who, on instructions from the authorities, had issued a writ
for Chaplaine's arrest. There was Father Venance, who had written
lampoons about Chaplaine while he was still a Capuchin. Both had
atoned upon the scaffold.

Unluckily for Chaplaine, among the prisoners at La Bourbe were
a cousin of Lariviere and a nephew of Father Venance. It delighted
them to find Chaplaine a fellow inhabitant of their sad home. They
teased him; they interrupted his would-be orations with catcalls
and mockery. They were always devising new torments for him.

The inmates of La Bourbe were fond of enacting gruesome little
farces in which they made fun of the tribunals, the guillotine, and of
themselves. Venance and Lariviere now induced several of their
fellow prisoners to make Chaplaine the victim in one such burlesque.
They came upon him in bed, haled him before their 'revolutionary
tribunal/ found him guilty, executed him. Then they made him
appear before the judges in Hades. Here he had to justify himself
for the murder of men whom he had sent to the guillotine from
motives of personal enmity. Chaplaine was high-strung and moody,
and while others would have taken such jokes in good part he trem-
bled in his nightshirt and stammered he, the eloquent orator. Alto-
gether he cut a lamentable figure. He was sentenced to be pursued
by the Furies, and a number of prisoners, singing the chorus of the
Furies, chased him down the corridors.

The fat, thin-skinned Chaplaine, who had remained calm and
collected in real perils, never recovered from his adventure of that
night. He had been looking forward eagerly to the day when he
would appear before the revolutionary tribunal. What a grand speech
he was going to make on this, his last appearance. He meant to ac-
company his departure from this world by a magnificent display of
fireworks. Now he was unable to endure the few days that still re-
mained. He took poison. But it worked too slowly. He howled in
agony. Everyone ran to the spot The good Doctor Dupontet admin-
istered an antidote. Even his attempt to escape from the world had
turned into a farce.

Chaplaine had done good work in establishing and consolidating

324

the Republic, He had a feeling for the arts and sciences. He tad
coined a number of pithy phrases to describe the phenomena of the
revolution; and these phrases - both the lofty and the low ones -
had entered the vocabulary of every European language. With good
reason he had assumed that his death would make him a figure of
tragedy for all time. And now this insipid joke by a couple of wretch-
ed boors had made a buffoon of him, so that his memory would al-
ways bear the taint of ridicule.

He was tried the following week. The public prosecutor did not
even take the trouble to present the charge in a formal speech.
Instead, in a few contemptuous, careless phrases he called on the
citizen-jurors to give this Windier and speculator Chaplaine' the
sentence he deserved, namely death. When Chaplaine drew himself
up and started a noble, flaming oration, the president told him not to
waste the jury's precious time with his drivel. On the way to the
guillotine the people of Paris indulged in gay, senseless mockery at
the expense of this fat man whom they had so often applauded. He
laid his eloquent head upon the block without a last word.

The inmates of La Bourbe heard of his tragicomic end with
mingled feelings of anger, pity, horror, and scorn. But within an hour
a foolish incident within La Bourbe itself drove him and his fate
entirely from their minds.

For the ninety-one-year-old Citizeness Pr6v6t was robbed of her
watch - a small gold timepiece set with diamonds. The lively old
lady had been merrymaking in the salon, the watch being left be-
hind in her dormitory. Thefts were a rarity in La Bourbe. There was
a strong sense of solidarity among the prisoners for one of them to
steal from another was regarded as an atrocious crime. Thus the
general indignation mounted when the thief turned out to be elegant,
handsome Duvivier, the young revolutionary with the royal lilies tat-
tooed on his back, the darling of the ladies. He had always behaved
as if he had money, had not been sparing in delicate attentions to
his lady-loves in the way of flowers and bonbons, and now he had
stolen poor old Citizeness Prev6fs watch! A storm of hatred and
contempt broke loose. The authorities themselves declared that the
theft reflected upon Duvivier's character and thereby upon his civic
qualities. His case was brought up for trial. No stock was taken in his
revolutionary sentiments. The evidence of the tattooed lilies was con-
sidered in its most damaging light. He was condemned and guillo-
tined. The inmates of La Bourbe approved the verdict, and the

325

ladies who had let him flirt with them felt ashamed of themselves.
Old Pr6vot herself, on the other hand, exclaimed, "But that is ter-
rible! The poor young man! If I had as much as dreamed of such
a thing I would not have breathed a word about my watch." She
was sharply reproved for her softheartedness.

Fernand had been deeply stirred by Chaplaine's significantly
senseless, ironically tragicomic end. But as was the case with the
rest of the prisoners, his acrid sorrow over Chaplaine was wiped away
by the sensational theft of the watch. He was angry with himself, as
the others were, for having been taken in by the tattooed one's
agreeable personality. Like the rest he felt even a faint satisfaction at
Duvivier's execution.

He was shocked to observe these feelings in himself. Chaplaine
had been a person of stature; for all his weaknesses and absurdities
he had been a genuine revolutionary who had rendered good service
to the new France. And now he, Femand, Jean- Jacques's pupil, the
detached spirit who had always prided himself on his independence
of thought, found himself more roused by the fate of a petty common-
place rascal like Duvivier than by the remarkable and significant end
of Chaplaine, the politician and scholar. His mind had been poisoned
by the others, so that in the space of a minute his sublime melancholy
had turned to vulgar revenge and petty anger.

He was concerned over the instability of his feelings. But slowly
this concern changed to acceptance. And then to a kind of happiness.
So he was not different from the others after all. He felt as they
did. They were a community here in La Bourbe, a homogeneous
mass, of which he was part. He could, through the exercise of reason,
see the mass as individuals, but it was still a mass and he was a mem-
ber of it.

People in La Bourbe were often mean, and he had let himself
be infected by this meanness. But that was a good thing. They were
a community in La Bourbe, in good as well as in evil. They were
united in their contempt for cowardice and their admiration for
courage, be, it the courage of ci-devant or of radical. They were pa-
thetic and inane. They jeered viciously at each other's opinions with-
out understanding them. They took more interest in the theft of a
watch than in the conflict between the partisans of Reason and those
of the Supreme Being. They looked daggers at anyone who had been
given a larger helping of soup. But all were passionately loyal French-

326

men, ti-devants and Jacobins alike, when it came to.lamenting the Re-
publican army's defeats and rejoicing at its victories.

^They formed a unity here in La Bourbe, They were the people,
with all its contradictions.

And he belonged to it

Chapter S The GoMess of Reason

ONE EVENING IN the salon he heard someone exclaim behind him,
"You here, Fernand!" Recognizing the voice he spun around. It was
Eugenie Maillart, Lepeletier's friend and his own. She laughed and
cried, amazed and delighted.

He wondered what evil chance had brought the martyred Lepele-
tier's friend and confidante to La Bourbe.

She explained. Remarkably enough, it was Chaplaine's fall that
had proved her own undoing. It seemed that before the great 'Festival
of Reason' Chaplaine had come to her and had asked her to take the
part of the Goddess of Reason. "The fat, dirty fellow disgusted me ? w
she told Fernand, "and of all the stupid roles IVe had to play this
was the stupidest. But how could I refuse? I should almost certainly
have been charged with hostility to the regime, and I felt I wasn't
cut out to be a martyr. Michel would have understood me, I'm sure.'*

Femand understood her too. This woman knew the world and the
strange contradictions of thought and action. She had the spirit of
Lepeletier. She accepted calmly the irony of her situation having
to pay for something her whole being had rebelled against doing in
the first place.

Later on she told Fernand about her adventure most vividly, laugh-
ing yet repelled. Chaplaine and the other marshals of atheism had
wanted their great celebration in a hurry. The participants in the 'Fes-
tival of Reason' were allowed barely three days to get ready. Citizens
Gossec and Gardel, chief composer and ballet master of die Opera,
were ordered to rearrange the ballet oratorio 'Homage to Freedom 9

327

into an 'Homage to Reason." The pageant was to take place in Notre
Dame, to which stage, scenery, and properties of all kinds were hur-
riedly brought from the Opera. The cathedral was rechristened 'The
Temple of Reason.' A mountain peak was knocked together in the
choir, upon which stood the 'Temple of Reason.' It was all highly
makeshift, and when Eugenie, in a white tunic and Phrygian cap,
with a pike in her hand, came out of the temple and sat down on
the throne she was afraid the whole thing would collapse. She was
even more anxious when four porters from the Halles, dressed in
priestly garb, carried her and her throne down the green-carpeted
steps of the artificial mountain: the structure creaked ominously. The
triumphal procession through the streets of Paris was also a trial. The
rain was streaming down, her thin white tunic was immediately
soaked through. She was miserably cold on her throne. Still more
miserably cold was her retinue of dancers and singers, who were
even more lightly clad than she and had to march through the rain
and mud in their thin ballet slippers with ecstatic smiles on their
faces. Then, wet to the skin and certain that she had caught a severe
chill, she had to sit for hours in the Convention being speechified to
and kissed until finally she was carried back to Notre Dame,

Though Eugenie spoke lightly, Fernand could sense the shame,
disgust, and despair this woman must have felt. She was lighthearted
by nature and had learned from Lepeletier to derive amusement
from all sorts of absurd situations. But she loathed any kind of vul-
garity. There was no laughing at all the filth and stupidity she must
have had to endure, the kisses from members of the Convention, the
patriotic pawings of a lascivious public.

Eug6nie told of another grisly farce in which she had been com-
pelled to take part. She had had to preside at the church of Saint-
Denis, still on her throne and garbed as the Goddess of Reason, at
the desecration of the royal graves. With Chaplaine as their ring-
leader, a merry throng had broken open the tombs of those kings of
old, the princes spiritual and temporal with whose names the history
of France was studded. They had made sport with the thigh bones,
played bowls with the skulls of the Louis' and Francois', the
Philippes and Henrys. Remains of every kind embalmed corpses,
bones, scepters, crowns, bishops' staffs, and other attributes of power
had been thrown onto a great heap and everyone had danced about
on it, trampling and destroying. Chaplaine appropriated coronets,
royal signet rings, and similar souvenirs for his collection. At first they

328

had wanted to spare good Henry the Fourth: he was in a particularly
good state of preservation, having been embalmed in the Italian
manner, and was altogether a popular figure. But the high priests
of Reason would not hear of it and had that body thrown into the
enormous lime pit to be destroyed with the others. One corpse only
was spared, that of Field Marshal Turenne. So far as Eugenie knew,
the beloved general's body had been transferred to the Natural His-
tory Museum and there it no doubt stood, among strange stuffed
animals. When the last body had disappeared into the lime pit Chap-
laine had announced, "The era of monarchy is now finished once
and for all. From now on the world will reckon according to the
calendar of the Republic."

The inmates of La Bourbe admired and pitied Eugenie. The
6nergum&nes, those unflinching radicals, maintained that she should
be proud to have been selected for the sublime role of Goddess of
Reason. A little discomfort was not too high a price to pay for a
glory like that

Everyone, even her political opponents, was fond of Eugenie
Maillart. Her presence made La Bourbe a brighter place.

Many of the men sought to win her favor with gallant attentions,
some clumsy, some refined. But she made it quite clear that she
preferred Fernand. She was with him whenever possible; she tended
his lame foot and had tender, sad, and playful conversations with
him. The love that evolved between them was strong and gentle,
delicate and wise in face of the death all around them and before
them.

They were not bothered by Michel Lepeletier's memory. On the
contrary, it brought them closer to each other. They smiled when
they saw the bust of Lepeletier set up in the prison. The stone face
wore a look of high-minded emptiness. How utterly different the
real Lepeletier's clever, ugly, benevolent face had been!

There was the memory of the dead man in Fernandas and Eugenie's
love, and there was also the threat of the immediate future. In the
morbid atmosphere of La Bourbe their love gave them buoyancy and
warmth, a sense of gaiety and irresponsible happiness. Their love
was such that the others respected it, forbearing to intrude upon it
by so much as an allusion.

Every day fellow prisoners of theirs would be taken out into the
darkness, and Eugenie was fully aware of the danger hanging over
her. "Of course I shall defend myself by pointing out that it would

329

have meant death to have refused to play the goddess. But that
wont help much with the tribunal. The Brutuses will answer, 'Then
you ought to have died, Citizeness.' " On another occasion she re-
marked, 'If they take me, the fine burial spot I had made as a copy
of Jean- Jacques's will go to waste. They will scarcely treat me more
gently than they treated the dead princesses."

That was how she would talk. But Femand noticed that in her
heart of hearts she did not really believe Fate could strike her. The
truth was that the two most confident people in La Bourbe were
young Eugenie and ninety-one-year-old Citizeness Prevot.

Once, willy-nilly, Eugenie put her faith into words. One day, she
told Fernand, she had seen a bird-catcher with a rich catch of birds
in his net. She had bought the lot, and while the bird-catcher shook
his head, had set them free. The joyous fluttering with which the
larks, finches, and thrushes had flown off into the sky was one of her
happiest memories. "That's how it will be when they release me,"
she told Fernand.

Then, one morning, Eugenie disappeared, as suddenly as she had
come. To Fernand the shock was as great as if the blow had fallen
on himself.

Later he discovered that she had been transferred to another pris-
on. Later still, news reached him that she had been set free.

He recovered only slowly from the initial shock.

He missed Eugenie. He continued as before to take part in the life
of La Bourbe, but he felt more strongly than ever the dreary empti-
ness of it all, and he longed more often and more violently for
solitude.

He fell prey to a deep, fatalistic despondency. He had been mis-
taken. He was not like the others. He was miserably different Bitterly
he repeated to himself, 'Impares nascimur, pares morimur we are
born unequal, are equal only in death/

330

Chapter 6 "Arduous Are the Paths Along
Which Mercy Guides Us*

THE JACOBIN ARMY, doubted, sneered at by experts the world over,
the conscript army, 'the pathetic army of Terror' was victorious. One
after another, reports of victory reached Paris from the fronts.

There were celebrations in Paris.

And there were celebrations in La Bourbe. The prisoners assembled
in the garden beneath the tricolor; busts of Jean- Jacques and Lepele-
tier looked down on them. They sang a hymn composed by the poet
Vig6e, one of the inmates of La Bourbe. Warden Thirion made a
speech, as did several of the prisoners. There were numerous quota-
tions from Jean-Jacques. One prisoner, a lawyer by the name of
Brognard, an enrage whose conviction was certain, cried out, <f Res-
publica! Morituri te salutant! Republic, we who are about to die
salute thee! " And everyone chimed in.

There were also celebrations at Ermenonville.

Girardin knew well that a victory for the allied armies would have
released him and his Fernand from their deadly peril. Yet he was
sincerely glad of the Republican victory. And when his guards sat
down to their festive meal he sent them the best wine he had in his
cellars and asked permission to join them.

There he sat with the National Guards, sturdy lads, if a little un-
couth. "This is fine wine you're serving, ci-devant" one of them told
him appreciatively. "Suspect you may be, old man/' said another,
"but you're a good one," and he clapped him on the shoulder. Girar-
din listened to their coarse, simple-minded jokes, thought of the
General Will and felt himself to be a true pupil of Jean- Jacques.

Citizen Vincent Huret, the fanatically suspicious mayor of Senlis,
was highly indignant when he heard of this fraternal celebration.

He had reason enough for ill humor as it was. He had made no
secret of his admiration for Deputy Chaplaine, and now they had
seen fit to behead Citizen Chaplaine, as an enemy of the country.
That might have serious consequences for himself.

331

Therefore he became more superpatriotic than ever in exercising
his official duties.

As soon as he heard of the National Guards' laxness he hurried to
Ermenonville. He vehemently harangued Corporal Grappin and his
men on the subject of Republican vigilance, and threatened to report
them to their superiors. In the future they were not to allow the
suspect Girardin any contact whatsoever with the outside world.

This accomplished, Citizen Huret walked through the park to pay
his respects to the great Jean-Jacques's grave. He felt he had done
well to see for himself how things stood here. Why, this Ermenonville,
the park as much as the chateau, was a veritable bastion of reaction.
The whole landscape was full of monstrosities from the bad old days
of tyranny. Everywhere stood statues of splendidly got-up men of
the old regime. Some of them had suspicious names, outlandish,
aristocratic names, suggesting that they were connected with the
foreign tyrants who had invaded the Republic. And all this as close
as you please to where Jean- Jacques lay buried!

On his return to Senlis, Citizen Huret called upon the sovereign
people to put an end to this disgraceful state of affairs.

Two hay wagons full of patriots from Senlis drove to Ermenonville.
With them they took a supply of suitable implements: hatchets,
pikes, axes, also a keg of cider. They invaded the park, trampled on
the flower beds and, to start with, knocked the noses off a few of the
stone aristocrats. Then they rolled up their sleeves and set to work
exuberantly on their main task. There were two buildings in particu-
lar which enraged them: the Pyramid of the Bucolic Poets and the
Temple of Philosophy. Both structures were covered with outlandish
busts and inscriptions, these last in foreign tongues and certainly
hostile to the state. With lusty shouts of "Down with tyranny! Long
live freedom!" they proceeded to reduce the heads of Greek, Roman,
English, and German poets to fragments. The pillars of the Temple
of Philosophy were solidly constructed and it was no easy matter to
destroy them, but in their enthusiasm the people from Senlis suc-
ceeded even in this. Their labors over, they held a victory celebration
on the toppled columns, rejoicing in duty done, in the beautiful view,
and in the keg of cider.

Goodman Maurice had witnessed these doings with consternation.
He ran to Ermenonville village and gave the alarm. The gardens
were the pride of the village; the famous Jean-Jacques had loved

332

them, and strangers were always coming to see them. Goodman
Maurice managed to rouse a good dozen men to action.

With them at his back he marched up and told the men from Sen-
lis that the park was a sound Republican affair; Jean- Jacques had
spent his last days here, and there was nothing the matter with all
this stonework either. The patriots remained unconvinced. The Er-
menonville villagers were obviously still serfs of the ci-devant, they
still thought like slaves. The men of Senlis believed in their mayor,
Citizen Huret; moreover they were full of cider and in the majority.
When Goodman Maurice plied them with more and more arguments
and quotations from Jean-Jacques they at first laughed, then told
him to shut up, and when he persisted in his bombastic talk they took
a canvas out of their wagon, threw the fat innkeeper upon it, and
tossed him in the air and caught him again. He struggled, screaming
with fear. It was a great joke.

Badly mauled, shaken, and exhausted, Goodman Maurice was left
slumped on the ground among the fallen columns, bitterly reflecting
on the wickedly stupid interpretations which Jean- Jacques's doctrine
of the General Will sometimes had put upon it.

Meanwhile the people from Senlis set out to pay a visit to the
ci-devant himself.

In the hall of the chateau Monsieur Gerber came to meet them.

He had observed from afar the events in the park. So the bar-
barians were breaking in here too; like the Goths and Huns they
were turning temples into stables for their horses. A painful analogy
occurred to him: just as the people in Paris had destroyed Jean-
Jacques's doctrine of the state, making a grotesque caricature of it
by their misdeeds, so here they were laying waste the gardens which
had been his last source of happiness, his 'Nature/ Not even this
modest fulfillment of Jean-Jacques's dreams was allowed to endure.
Monsieur Gerber's heart was torn with anguish. He sought to deaden
it by repeating to himself a line of Aeschylus: 'Arduous are the paths
along which Mercy guides us.'

But now that the men had penetrated into the chateau itself he
could no longer hold his peace. He went toward them, pale and
dignified. "Be temperate, gentlemen," he told them. "Remember this
fundamental principle of the Republic: One citizen's freedom ends
where another's begins. I tell you, citizens, in the name of Jean-
Jacques whose spirit hovers round us all, your freedom ends on the
threshold of this house."

333

He stood there, thin, feeble, much older than his years. But his
eyes did not waver; they stared at the vandals with burning deter-
mination, and his voice was deep and compelling. He looked absurdly
like Jean-Jacques, and perhaps the men of Senlis were dimly re-
minded of pictures of Jean- Jacques they might have seen somewhere.
For a moment they hesitated.

But then one of them said, "Cut the speechmaking, you clown!" And
another said, "He's a former priest, a hireling of superstition. You can
tell from his cant." But they were good-humored; they did him no
harm, merely stuck the red bonnet of freedom on his head, poured
him some cider, and made him drink death to the aristocrats whose
stone images they had destroyed.

After having been reprimanded by Citizen Huret, Corporal Grap-
pin had not felt justified in restraining the sovereign people from
their attempt to set things to rights in the park. But he was respon-
sible for the life and person of his suspect. He posted his guards at
the door to the inner apartments and urged the men from Senlis to
go home. They, wearied by their patriotic exertions and the subse-
quent celebration, allowed themselves to be persuaded.

Chapter 7 Voices from the Mire

THE JACOBINS were vigilant. Since they believed they had discovered
conspiracies in the prisons they had forbidden the prisoners all con-
tact with the outside world.

The inmates no longer heard of what was going on outside, except
the news that the head warden read aloud to them every evening
from the Moniteur. Even the resourceful Monsieur Robinet could no
longer smuggle news in to Fernand. Fernand did not hear about the
vandalism at Ermenonville.

Extremely strict new regulations were introduced. The prisoners
were forbidden to receive additional food from outside. They were
forbidden to make music. The dogs had to be removed. There was

334

no longer lighting in the dormitories. Anyone who broke the new
regulations was put into solitary confinement. The veneer of gaiety
disappeared from La Bourbe.

The dirt increased with the severity of the regulations, and La
Bourbe revealed itself in all its misery. Fernand suffered bitterly from
the filth. Because of the morale of the inmates, too, La Bourbe, the
swamp, he thought, was living up to its name. Their commerce, and
intercourse with them, was no longer a comfort, a source of inspira-
tion; the everlasting presence of others was galling and irritating; it
made one feel somehow sticky and dirty.

As if deliberately to mock the prisoners, the authorities made them
continue to assemble toward evening in the salon. The right of assem-
bly, the head warden declared, was one of the fundamental rights of
the Republic. So they sat there chatting, playing cards or checkers,
squabbling; and the grand inscriptions on humanity and human rights
looked down on them from the walls. Nowhere more powerfully than
in the salon was Fernand struck by the complete senselessness of
life in La Bourbe. Senseless the incessant furious arguments among
the prisoners; senseless the fate which overtook them; and senseless
the doctrinaire suspicions of the men who were responsible for their
imprisonment.

The whole country was spinning senselessly in a vortex.

So as not to go out of his mind himself he tried to see sense in
this senselessness. Greatness was unimaginable without a trace of
madness, he thought. There was a verse by an English poet which
he could not get out of his head:

Great wits are sure to madness near allied;
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.

Because the whole world had persecuted him for his boldness and
wisdom, Jean-Jacques had from time to time taken refuge in madness,
*Thelo, thelo manenaC Now the whole world was persecuting the
people of France because they were trying with astonishing courage
to build up a state on the basis of reason. Why should they be denied
the occasional convulsions of irrationality as an escape? Just as in Jean-
Jacques's life, so now in the history of France, brilliantly reasonable
achievements were interrupted by acts of madness. But with sure
instinct the people always found their way back to sanity.

In spite of his own difficulties Fernand was making a tremendous

335

effort to be just, not to allow his view of the whole to be distorted
by his personal misfortunes.

To be sure, the irresponsible act of a malevolent and stupid man
had brought him to this pass. But to the Republic struggling for its
life, everything was permissible that could serve to discomfit and
destroy its enemies. The Republic was dependent on the services,
even of subordinate officials; it could not afford to be delicate. Robes-
pierre, Saint-Just, and Martin Catrou were right; in such a situation
cruelty became a virtue and anyone rejecting the rigorous measures
of the Republic from softheartedness thereby became its enemy.

Here and now, here in the depths, he had to prove himself. If he
let his personal wrongs change his views, if he did not stick by the
Republic with all his being, even by this Republic of Terror, he would
be forfeiting his claim to be accepted by the people as their brother.

In Latour meanwhile anxiety mounted. Robinet had to let Gilberte
know that he was no longer in touch with Fernand. Gilberte could
not bear the inactivity. She wanted to go to Paris, to see whether she
could help Fernand herself.

Monsieur Robinet pleaded with her not to be foolhardy. Under
the new regulations ci-devanis were forbidden to stay in Paris. If
Gilberte moved away from Latour she would merely be increasing
the danger to herself without helping Fernand. But all Robinet's
entreaties and arguments were in vain. She traveled to Paris.

First she must speak to Martin Catrou. It was inconceivable that
he would allow his best friend to be doomed. The obvious explanation
was that he simply had not heard of Fernandas arrest; such arrests
were so commonplace nowadays that people scarcely noticed them.
She must tell Martin.

Her supposition that he knew nothing of Fernandas imprisonment
was confirmed. At the Convention she learned that he had gone on a
special mission to the Vendee. Nevertheless, she must act. The revo-
lutionary tribunal worked with appalling speed.

She sought out Martin's wife, Citizeness Jeanne Catrou; found her-
self standing in that dwelling overcrowded with furniture. Jeanne
inspected her mistrustfully. Gilberte had carefully prepared what
she was going to say: that Jeanne knew what great friends Martin
and Fernand were and that surely it was inconceivable that Citizen
Catrou would have accepted the friendship of an enemy of the
state. Fernandas arrest must therefore be due to some incomprehen-

336

sible mistake, and would Citizeness Catrou please let her husband
know what had happened.

Jeanne had never liked Fernand, had mistrusted him from the first
Now it seemed that others shared her mistrust. She was gratified to
hear of his arrest, and secretly pleased that Martin was not in Paris;
the one matter on which she did not see eye to eye with Martin
was his friendship with that little count.

"Deputy Catrou has gone to the Vendee by order of the Conven-
tion," she said, "to punish the defeated rebels so that they will never
again try treason. Such work demands a man's full attention. Do you
seriously expect me to take up his valuable time, Citizeness, with a
petty personal matter like this? I don't understand you, Citizeness.
Have you no faith in the justice of the Republic? Do you want any-
thing besides justice? Are you looking for pity? Pity is not a Republi-
can virtue."

Gilberte could not bear to go back to the forced idleness of Latour.
She stayed in Paris. She went to La Bourbe and sought an opportu-
nity to pass Fernand a note or to receive some word of him. There
were friends and relations of other prisoners haunting the neighbor-
hood of La Bourbe with the same intention. Gilberte knew that
money achieved much, and money she had with her. But security
regulations in La Bourbe had become extremely strict The guards
were surly, and there were innumerable spies. Gilberte was warned
that an ill-considered step on her part could imperil both her friend
and herself.

She brooded day and night on Fernand's possible fate.

She went so far as to attend sittings of the revolutionary tribunal
to see the men on whom his fate depended.

There sat the same judge and jury whom Fernand had seen on an
earlier occasion. But they themselves had changed, and so had their
methods. It had been impressed upon them that their function was
to excise the cancerous growth that was eating at the guts of the
Republic, cut it out thoroughly and speedily. Most of the measures for
the protection of the defendants had been abolished. The jurors were
instructed not to weigh with petty precision what a defendant might
or might not have done, but to follow their own intuition. They were
to abide by Jean- Jacques's doctrine: 'Conscience is a divine voice
which unerringly guides even the ignorant/

The defendants no longer appeared singly, but in groups of twelve,
fifteen, on one occasion even twenty-seven. They had been arbitrarily

337

lumped together by some subordinate official as, for instance: 'Citizen
Dupont and twelve other conspirators,' Strange conspiracies. For ex-
ample, members of the high nobility were said to have conspired
with small shopkeepers who had violated the price controls. To such
a group might be added a prostitute whose cursing had sounded
Royalist, a former tax-farmer, and the proprietor of a marionette
theater who was under suspicion of having used his puppets to poke
fun at the Republic. According to the indictment all these had con-
spired together, in the Luxembourg prison, to betray their country
and support the enemy tyrants.

With eyes sharpened by fear Gilberte observed the tribunal and
those on whom it was to pass sentence. She noticed how apathetic
and at the same time nervous the jurors were. Their functions had
clearly become commonplace to them, however important they might
consider them to be. Gilberte did not regard herself as being par-
ticularly clever, or gifted with insight into the souls of men, but her
fear gave her the power to divine what was going on in the minds of
judge and jurors. From the Convention, from the Commune of Paris,
from the Jacobin Club the exhortations came: 'Do your duty! Rid us
of the pollution of treason! Exterminate the guilty without mercy!
Better that some healthy tissue be lost in the process than that any-
thing rotten should remain in the body of the Republic! * And so at
ever shorter intervals and after ever more cursory investigations,
prisoners would appear before the court. The jurors were so over-
tired that they scarcely distinguished any longer between one defend-
ant and another. Moreover, tie public would interfere, would abuse
the prisoners and call out to the jury, "Faster, faster." Suspicion was
rampant. Everyone distrusted everyone else. There were rumors
that even the tribunal itself was venal. In such an atmosphere mercy
became a crime and every acquittal was suspect. Gilberte could
imagine how the jurymen must feel in such circumstances. They
might be kindhearted by nature, but they were obeying their Intui-
tion' which said, 'Guilty, guilty! Death, death!'

Undoubtedly many of the prisoners in fact the majority, it
seemed were guilty, or at least ready to harm the Republic should
the opportunity arise. But some were obviously indifferent to all
politics, concerned only for their own skins and a few comforts. Oc-
casionally such prisoners would be acquitted, but this was purely a
matter of chance; it depended on the mood of the tribunal, on that
same 'intuition' which would rather say 'guilty' than 'not guilty/

338

Gilberte imagined Femand sitting with the other defendants. Super-
stitiously she looked for omens. She identified him with Citizen Usson
here, or Citizen Renard there. Whatever their fate would be, his
would be. She was chilled to the marrow when Citizen Usson was
sent to the guillotine; she exulted at Citizen Renard's acquittal.

From the tribunal she hurried to the prison, and from the prison
to the Convention. At the Convention she asked whether Deputy
Catrou had returned. When was he expected? She made inquiries
in the neighborhood of La Bourbe as to whether after all there might
not be a guard who would be willing to act as go-between. And
again and again, horribly fascinated, she returned to the dreadful
sittings of the tribunal.

Meanwhile, in spite of the severity of the regimen, the inmates of
La Bourbe had found a way of communicating with the outside
world. They had discovered that certain latrine pipes conducted
sound waves to and from the underground sewers into which the
pipes issued. They could hear what was being said in this under-
ground world and could speak with it.

It was an experience both touching and grotesque to hear the voice
of a friend, a wife or lover rising up from the mire; exciting to
imagine how the speaker had climbed down into the filthy, evil-
smelling depths and had waited for hours till his voice reached the
person he was seeking.

Every day, with the utmost secrecy, prisoners would be summoned
to the latrine to hear the voices of their nearest and dearest emerging
from the sewer.

One day, to his surprise and joy, Fernand, too, was called to the
latrines. On his way there he played a sort of hide-and-seek with
himself, pretending that of course it was Eugenie who wished to
speak with him, for he was unwilling to admit to himself whose voice
he was expecting.

Then it came, the voice Gilberte's voice. The words she spoke
were few and very simple. She said, "How are you?" and, "All kinds
of things are being done for you. I mustn't tell you the details. But
it's sure to be successful." And she added, "Don't be afraid."

There Gilberte stood, his girl Gilberte, knee-deep in excrement so
that he might hear her voice and she his. It was glorious and heart-
rending. What she was doing was sheer folly. It could only endanger
herself; she couldn't possibly help him, and what she had said was
pure invention, just to comfort him. And it did comfort him. Her

339

words, enveloped in stench, foulness, and incongruity, came to his
ear and heart more sweetly than the sweetest music.

His imprisonment in La Bourbe ceased to oppress him. He was
able to sleep soundly again. He knew her words were a dream- wish,
yet her message brought him hope and tranquillity.

Lepeletier had once remarked upon Nature's prodigal way of de-
stroying on an enormous scale in order to produce something new and
better, and if you considered the history of the world that was how
the progress of the human race appeared. His friend had been right.
Fernand believed, knew, that from these petty, senseless, horrible
events something great would finally emerge: the new France the
France of Jean- Jacques.

Above the folly and misery of La Bourbe he heard Gilberte's voice.
The stench out of which the voice arose was blown away. The clear,
confident voice remained.

Chapter 8 Jean-Jacques's Revenge

IT CAME TO PASS just as Citizen Vincent Huret, the mayor of Senlis,
had gloomily predicted for himself at the time of Deputy Chaplaine's
downfall. He himself was investigated and found wanting. He was
removed from office and placed under house arrest.

Goodman Maurice was delighted. The time had come to settle
accounts with the barbarians who had played him such nasty tricks.
Goodman Maurice went to the police. He took with him witnesses
from Ermenonville who were able to corroborate and enlarge upon
his report of how the people from Senlis had been urged on by their
wicked atheistic mayor to desecrate the God-fearing Jean-Jacques's
favorite haunts. An exhaustive dossier was drawn up.

It so happened that Maximilien Robespierre regarded the great
campaign against the godless as his personal concern. He made a
point of seeing every document bearing on the question. In this way
he came to hear of the devastations in the park at Ermenonville.

His sallow face went even paler. The gardens in which Jean-

340

Jacques had walked, in which he, Maximilien, had had an unforget-
table conversation with the Master! The gardens where he had taken
that vow which was to have such historic, fateful consequences! The
birthplace of the revolution! Barbarously laid waste! But he would
atone for the outrage. He would make reparation to the dead man.
He already saw what was required.

His face cleared. This propitiatory act would also give him a chance
to demonstrate anew to his friend Saint- Just his fraternal feeling and
esteem.

This was a good time to do so.

For in the next few days Saint-Just would be off to the Rhine. As
political commissar he was to supervise the Commanders of the field
armies on the spot. It was a dangerous mission. More than once re-
fractory generals had simply had these interfering observers elimi-
nated. Maximilien was dispatching Saint- Just to the front with pride
and some anxiety. By telling him of his decision he would admit that
on that past occasion his friend's judgment had been better than his
own.

He told Saint-Just of the mischief committed by the atheists of
Senlis. "Ermenonville is no worthy resting place for Jean- Jacques," he
went on. "You were right, my good Antoine, that time that we visited
the grave together, and I was wrong. We shall, as you suggested,
transfer the precious remains to the Pantheon."

A flush spread over Saint- Just's fine-skinned face. Had one of the
great men of the world ever admitted a mistake more candidly than
Maximilien? How generous of him to give his friend the credit for
the prospective act of homage to Jean- Jacques. After all, it was Max-
imilien who had dedicated his life to Jean- Jacques's greater glory,

Once again Saint-Just was overwhelmed by the realization of
Maximilien's tremendous achievement. What the Roman Republic
had achieved in five centuries, he had done in five years. The world's
stage had stood empty since the time of the Romans; Robespierre
had filled it with purpose and action.

Saint- Just would have liked to take part in the great state funeral.
But in four days at the most he had to leave for the front, and
Jacques-Louis David, the artist, declared that he would need weeks
to prepare the plans for the obsequies which at Robespierre's wish
were to be finer than for any monarch of France.

At least Saint- Just could supply a very capable helper his friend
Martin Catrou.

341

Martin Catrou had at last returned from the Vendee. He had done
a good job there. Even Robespierre, normally so sparing of praise,
expressed appreciation. He had promptly agreed to Saint- Just's sug-
gestion that Martin should go along with him as Second Commissar.
Before following Saint-Just to the front, however, Martin was to do
something toward the state funeral. As a native of Ermenonville he
was to restore order there and prepare for the transfer of the body
to Paris.

Martin was happy to have been able to serve the Republic in the
Vendee. He was elated at the prospect of serving under Saint- Just
on the Rhine. It was a crowning satisfaction to have been assigned
the task of repairing the wrongs committed at Ermenonville.

The first thing he did for the revolutionary tribunal acted
swiftly was to give orders for the suspension of the case against
the Girardins.

Then he traveled to Senlis.

He interrogated Huret personally and directed that Huret should
stand trial before the tribunal in Paris rather than the more lenient
one of the department.

Next he sought information concerning Jean- Jacques's widow and
her ^business manager*, the former stableboy of the ci-devant.

This is how Nicolas and Therese had fared meanwhile:

Nicolas had smelled trouble the moment the campaign against the
godless began. Not that he cared which got there first, the Goddess
of Reason or the Supreme Being. He just had a hunch that his friend
and patron Chaplaine would be paying for his jokes about God the
Father and the Holy Ghost. In fact it wasn't long before that un-
pleasant fellow Robespierre, in an important speech against the
atheists, referred pointedly to Chaplaine. Nicolas read the speech,
whistled through his teeth, and told himself, 'Sauve qui peutl * He
had Therese dress up in dignified style and with her on his arm
limped off to the house of his erstwhile friend, the fallen legislator.

He was not a moment too early. Officials of the Republic were
already at work there putting everything under seal. "What are you
thinking of, citizen-officials! " he challenged them. And pointing to
the manuscript of the Nouvelle Heloise, he declared, ^These papers
belong to Jean-Jacques's widow. Speak up, venerable widow!" he
prompted, turning to Th6rese. "These citizens had better realize that
they are violating the rights of the Master's companion." And Therese
repeated the lines he had drilled her on: "These papers are only

342

here on loan. The criminal Chaplaine took me in for a while, just as
he did the Republic." The officials were impressed. There stood Jean-
Jacques's widow in the flesh. To do her harm would be to draw down
Robespierre's wrath. They handed over the manuscript.

Nicolas shook the dust of an uncongenial Paris off his feet without
delay. He took Therese and the Nouvelle Heloise and headed for
Plessis and Citizen Bessat's thatched-roof cottage. He was even poorer
now than when he had left it.

Th6rese obscurely felt that their new reverses were Jean- Jacques's
revenge. She was scarcely settled in Plessis when she went to his
grave. She should have stayed by its side as her mother had told her.
She should never have gone to Paris. She and Nicolas had climbed
too high and now Jean- Jacques called her back. Humbly she asked
his pardon.

So there they were again, squatting in the midst of Jean- Jacques's
household goods. At least Nicolas, like the smart fellow he was, had
saved something from the catastrophe the papers. They lay in the
chest as before. But there wasn't much comfort in that. Nicolas grum-
bled and cursed. In his bitterness he declared that only the stupid
were lucky and so it was damned well up to Therese to have a bit of
luck, if nothing else.

And in fact it began to look as if Therese's luck would come
through. Rumors travel swiftly. Even before Martin Catrou appeared
in Ermenonville it was whispered that Jean- Jacques's body was to be
transferred to Paris. Dawn seemed to be breaking. Nicolas, with his
faculty for putting two and two together, recognized that the re-
moval of the body would not take place without colossal celebrations.
They could hardly do without Jean-Jacques's widow, who would be
fetched out of her corner and restored to the place of honor. The
Jacobin gentlemen would see that the widow's homme de confiance
had to be on hand for the coming solemnities. Hurrah! John Bally
rode again!

He rejoiced too soon. Deputy Catrou came, saw, and censured.
So this female had the impudence to go on playing the role of Jean-
Jacques's loyal spouse when all the time she was knocking about
with this fellow of hers who had put Jean-Jacques into his grave.
And the Convention in its innocence might go and give her a place of
honor at the state funeral. Martin would put a stop to anything like
that.

On the other hand this was scarcely the moment to stir up memo-

343

ries of Jean- Jacques's unhappy end by an expose of this couple. There
was a hard smile on Martin's face as he recalled with scorn the way
the seigneur had wavered and hesitated and had not dared lay hands
on the pair of murderers. Martin was of sterner stuff. He would see
to it that the vermin would not poison the great day with their
presence. He would drive them back into the darkness where they
belonged and all this without a shade of scandal falling upon Jean-
Jacques.

Had not these persons been on good terms with the condemned
atheist Chaplaine? Had they not been members of his set? Was it not
therefore as good as certain that they had been in on his intrigues
and swindlings?

Martin's first step was to have the couple pronounced suspect He
ordered that their house be searched and they themselves held under
strict arrest.

So the Procureur of the Republic appeared at Citizen Bessat's
thatched cottage, and while Nicolas looked on in helpless rage the
manuscript of the Nouvelle Heloise was carried away, chest and all,
and guards were posted at the door.

Inside the damp, dreary house Nicolas observed grimly, "They
pinch everything we've got the papers, and even the body." <c 7 ean ~
Jacques always used to say: 'The whole world is against us,"*
Th6rese reflected sadly. Then she gave a sigh and added consol-
ingly, "At least we've still got my mother's grave."

This was too much for Nicolas. He stood up with a groan and
limped menacingly toward her. She stood there waiting for him, par-
alyzed. He came up to her and struck her resoundingly in the face,
first the right cheek, then the left.

Chapter 9 The Body Snatcber

MEANWHILE MARTIN CATBOU was inspecting the gardens at Ermenon-
ville. He recalled every nook and cranny, and he looked sadly at the
devastation around him. But he did not admit his melancholy to him-

344

self. No, he himself cared nothing for this kind of nonsense, he
thought. What angered him was that the enrages had destroyed things
Jean-Jacques had loved.

The park must be restored. And the best person to do it was the
Marquis himself. An impatient smile crossed his square face as he
realized that he had suddenly thought of Citizen Girardin as the
Marquis again.

Only in Senlis he had learned that Fernand had been taken to
Paris and that only the elder Girardin was left at Ermenonville. This
was a disappointment. His reason for suspending the case against
them instead of setting them free at once had been that he wanted
to inform them of their release in person. Now, on his way to the
chateau, he felt more strongly than ever the piquancy of being able
to confront his former seigneur as an equal and as an emissary of the
Republic generously bringing him word of reprieve. Alas, his proud
anticipation was mingled with a feeling of embarrassment. He had
informed generals and high officials of the Republic of their impend-
ing execution with as much indifference as if he had been asking for
a bed for the night or a plate of soup. It was not going to be quite
such an easy matter for him to tell the Marquis that they were plan-
ning to exhume Jean-Jacques's body and remove it. The Marquis
undoubtedly believed firmly that he and he alone was entitled to be
the dead man's custodian.

Girardin was lying in bed, spent and emaciated, when Martin
reached the chateau. It had been simply inconceivable to him that the
barbarians had not even spared the gardens of Ermenonville Jean-
Jacques's gardens, the holiest spot in France. He had summoned all
his strength to go out and inspect the damage. But he had been un-
able to bear the sight. After a few steps he had had to turn back.
Moreover, in conformity with the order of the mayor of Senlis, just
at this time of black despair he had been cruelly alone. Only during
the past few days, since the mayor's arrest, had the faithful Gerber
been permitted to visit him again. There had been times when the
brave old soldier Girardin had seriously considered putting an end
to his life, and to protect himself against this impulse he had again
and again turned to the Nouvelle Heloise in order to read Jean-
Jacques's stern warning against suicide.

Now, when it was announced to him that Deputy Catrou wished
to see him, he was panic-stricken. He believed that this fellow
Catrou, who had been a rebel and his enemy even as a boy was

345

bringing him his sentence and he was suddenly overcome by a ter-
rible fear of the death he so recently had longed for.

A moment later he was entirely composed, once again the old
soldier, the victor of Hastenbeck. He called to mind the great exam-
ples of antiquity, Socrates and Seneca, to reinforce his own stoicism.
Trembling with weakness he had himself dressed in his best. The
messenger of ill tidings should be received with proper dignity.

He confronted the representative of the Republic with cold polite-
ness, with the hauteur of the seigneur of Ermenonville. "With what
bad news are you entrusted, citizen-legislator? " he asked.

"I am glad to be able to inform you," Martin said dryly, "that there
is not any question of doubt about your loyalty. I have given orders
for the guard to be withdrawn and for the seals to be removed from
your estate.'* ''Thank you, monsieur," said Girardin.

"It has come to our ears," Martin proceeded, "that some of the
statues in your gardens have suffered damage due to an excess of
patriotic zeal on the part of certain citizens of Senlis. The Republic
regrets this, particularly since the incident occurred in the neighbor-
hood of Jean-Jacques's grave. The Republic has reprimanded the
culprits and intends to make reparations." He concluded, not with-
out a certain affability, "If you wish you may supervise the work of
reconstruction yourself." tf Thank you, monsieur," Girardin repeated.

But there his self-control gave out. In a strangled voice he asked,
"And what is to happen to my son?" A little too quickly, almost
crossly, Martin answered, "Of course Fernand will also be released."

The Marquis had not believed that life could ever look so bright
again. His shoulders lifted. His heart soared. He could almost have
embraced this offensive messenger of glad tidings.

But Martin did not give him a chance to express these emotions.
He hated displays of feeling. Abruptly he passed on his third, and
disagreeable, piece of news. "You will understand that the Republic
does not wish to expose Jean- Jacques's remains to further risk. It in-
tends to take these precious remains under its own protection."

So brusquely snatched from his happiness, the Marquis swallowed
and had to sit down. "What does this mean?" he asked with an
effort.

Martin's brow reddened. He had not expected the Marquis to
take it so hard. Apparently he himself was not yet sufficiently discip-
lined. He was too softhearted. He should have let the Marquis know
through the usual official channels that his detention was over and

346

that Jean- Jacques was to be buried in the Pantheon. In the Vendee,
even under the most trying circumstances, he had let himself be
guided by reason alone. No sooner was he back in this stupid Erme-
nonville than he found himself giving way to a sort of sentimentality
more befitting a ci-devant.

He thrust his head forward. "The body is going to be transferred
to the Pantheon," he declared, his strident voice raised authorita-
tively.

Girardin who could not easily distinguish between the old Martin
and the new pleaded, "You can't do this to me, Martin! Send me
to the scaffold, but leave Jean-Jacques here! He stood up. "I abso-
lutely forbid this criminal act!" he cried, gesturing with his cane.

With a mixture of pity and contempt Martin admonished him,
"The rapid changes of the recent past have upset your balance. I
shall not attempt to argue with you. But remember this: it is not
Citizen Catrou whom you are speaking with, but the Republic/' And
with marked patience he told the feeble old man, "You must try to
understand that the people have a claim to Jean- Jacques. Jean- Jacques
is not a private possession of yours, Citizen Girardin. Jean-Jacques
belongs to the Republic."

Girardin had supposed that his sufferings of the past weeks were
sufficient punishment for his sins of omission. But no, the punishment
which Providence had devised for him was only now revealing itself,
more cruel than anything he could have imagined.

He commanded himself to be reasonable. He thought, 'Here stands
this boy, so young, so uncouth in his ridiculous three-colored scarf
and his ridiculous plumed hat, self-important and proud of his ghoul-
ish mission, dense as this wall and without an idea of what he's doing.
And yet, he has read Jean- Jacques. There must be words to make him
understand that he was committing a crime against Jean-Jacques!'

"Do try to understand!" he both pleaded and commanded* "It was
Jean-Jacques's own wish that his remains should rest here, in Nature's
bosom. 'Autds pha those were his very words, spoken to my face*
Here he wished to rest, beneath the open sky, the vault of heaven,
not beneath the vault of some gloomy building. It was Jean- Jacques's
last request." Girardin spoke rapidly, urgently. Feverishly he sought
some way of turning the young man from his gruesome designs.

He must abase himself before him, that was it he must abase
himself to this vain, stupid, self-important youngster, just as Priam
had abased himself before Achilles in pleading for the body of Hector.

347

"Leave Jean-Jacques here!" he implored him. "Do not lay hands on
him! Leave him here!" He spoke very softly. He tried to kneel, but
found he had not the strength to do so.

Martin was weary of this distasteful scene. He had more important
things to do than comfort this poor old fool. "Adieu, Citizen Girardin."
he said, and left.

Ought he to go and inform Fernand personally of his release as he
had planned to do? he asked himself. In three days he was to leave for
the front. He was up to his neck in duties; could he waste time on a
personal whim?

But it was more than a whim. Whenever he had an argument with
his strange childhood friend, he seemed to find the right word for the
things that troubled him, and his duty became clearer.

He went to La Bourbe.

Fernand was startled when he was told that Citizen Catrou was
waiting for him in the salon. Did Martin come to bring his release?
Or had his strange friend come to explain with Republican logic that
the welfare of the state demanded his death?

By daylight, and empty of its usual crowd, the salon looked large
and bare. Martin sat square and sturdy at one of the tables. He was
wearing his tricolored scarf. His plumed hat lay on the table before
him.

He said immediately, "I am here to tell you that you are free."
Fernand answered, "It is good of you to take the trouble to come and
tell me yourself."

He knew they were on the brink of an argument of supreme im-
portance to them both. Not only the words would be important, but
the tone in which they were spoken, down to the smallest nuance. Fer-
nand was determined not to lie, neither by words nor by silence,
not to falsify anything, either by gesture or facial expression. It was
as though his entire life would culminate in this conversation. He
must justify himself to Martin, his friend and foe, this representative
of the people. He must make it clear that his release was not an act
of mercy but of justice. Of course there were times when he had been
weak, and he was prepared to admit to his weaknesses and mistakes.
But he had fought his way through, he had stood his ground in
direst extremity. In the face of death he had declared himself ready
to accept his fate and to submit to the Republic no matter what it
might do.

Sure enough, the first thing Martin said was, "I suppose you

348

think you have been treated unjustly?" Fernand replied, "I can see
that I must have seemed suspect to certain people." He could not
resist adding, "In any case what I think is a matter of no importance."
"It is of importance," Martin answered belligerently. TOE you think
you've been treated unjustly you're guilty/' "I have not been treated
unjustly," Fernand replied, and this he felt.

Martin persisted. "In these times of stress," he declared, "the rights
of the individual must yield to the rights of the whole community. I
suppose you'll admit that much?" "Yes, I admit it," Fernand answered
patiently. "How kind of you," Martin said sarcastically. "But tell me,"
he went on, "would you have voted for Louis to die? Would you have
voted for the extermination of your moderates?" "I don't know,"
Fernand returned. "Probably not," he finally admitted.

"There you are, you see!" said Martin triumphantly. He sprang
to his feet and began to walk up and down between the empty
tables, addressing Fernand as if he were a vast audience. "Anyone
who works for the revolution with half -measures is digging his own
grave and that of the Republic as well, Oh, you gentlemen of learn-
ing!" he broke out. "You fainthearts! You desired the revolution, but
you only half desired it. When the cards were down, when severity
and terror were necessary, you turned cowards and took refuge be-
hind your stupid liumanity'! If it had been up to you the Republic
would have been defeated and done for by now. You traitors!"
His voice filled the room. He thrust out his face at Fernand.

Fernand strove to maintain his composure. There was a thread
of truth in what the other was saying. He had had the same feelings
himself when he had pondered the fate of the Girondists. "Why are
you letting me go if I'm a traitor?" he asked quietly. It was not the
logical reply, but he knew Martin would understand.

And so Martin did. He said more quietly, though with some irrita-
tion, "That's what I've been trying to explain to you for the past
sixteen years. You don't understand us. Your birth prevents you from
understanding the people. You are incapable of understanding them.
And because your kind couldn't understand, you did everything by
halves. Everything you did turned out to be wrong."

Then, remembering a former conversation of theirs, he planted
himself in front of Fernand and without preliminaries, in a matter-of-
fact tone, yet with a certain triumph, announced, "I've drafted a new
law for the abolition of slavery in the colonies. The Convention has
voted for it. Slavery has been abolished and without any if s and buts."

349

Fernand should have been pleased. He was not pleased. He was
conscious of nothing but anger. Martin was standing there and rub-
bing it in: 1 took action where you and your educated friends failed/
And it was true, Martin had acted where they had merely talked,
and slavery was abolished.

But that was just what annoyed Fernand. Everything about Mar-
tin, the way he stood there so sturdy and impudent, his downright
yet sarcastic manner of talking, vexed and annoyed Fernand. Jean-
Jacques's portrait in stone looked down at them out of large deep-set
eyes and seemed to affirm the truth of what Martin was saying. All
the patriotic inscriptions 'The free man loves freedom even when
he is deprived of it/ and all the rest of the high-flown nonsense which
ranted from the walls seemed to become sense and tell Fernand
that Martin was right. Fernand's breath came heavily with rage. He
became a boy again. The shopkeeper's son was once more taunting
the son of the seigneur and sticking out his tongue at him. Fernand
was not going to stand for it any longer. In a minute he would hit
the other in his square, grinning face.

He pulled himself together. The shopkeeper's son was right and
he must admit it, however hard it was. He took a deep breath. There
was even a certain warmth in his voice as he said, ^TTou have done
a valuable and necessary piece of work, Martin.'*

Martin knew what such an admission must cost. He was placated,
even moved. He would have liked to say something friendly and
kind.

But he was a Republican, and sentiment was not for him. "One
thing more/* he said. "I suppose the news hasn't reached you in here
that a few hotheads have been misbehaving themselves in Ermenon-
ville. No, nothing has happened to your father/* he quickly reassured
him, seeing Fernand's shocked surprise. "But the disturbance has
made Robespierre come round to a decision which as a matter of fact
is long overdue." He stated flatly, "We are going to transfer Jean-
Jacques's body to the Pantheon."

Fernand knew what a sad loss this would be to Ermenonville, and
what a cruel blow to his father. But he kept his face expressionless
and said nothing.

This was not what Martin wanted. With some awkwardness he
went on, "I suppose you will be going to Ermenonville, But if you
would prefer to remain in Paris 111 see that you get a special permit."

350

As Fernand still said nothing he went on heartily, almost pleadingly,
"Why don't you say something? Have you made any plans?"

A sudden impulse came to Fernand to reveal what he had kept
wholly secret up to now: "I had reported for duty with the army,
but they wouldn't have me/'

Martin was disconcerted, but only for an instant. He glanced at the
other's lame foot and thought to himself, 'Well, naturally/ Another
thought leaped into his mind: 'A ci-devant has no business in the
people's army.' Aloud, he said, "There is a regulation allowing
ci~dewnts to be employed in the service of the Republic if they're
useful."

Fernand looked up. "Do you mean you would be willing to back
me if I reported a second time?" he asked.

After the briefest possible reflection, and with an effort to speak
casually, Martin said, "In a few days I shall accompany Saint- Just to
the army on the Rhine as political commissar."

Fernand's warring emotions were clearly reflected on his thin,
expressive face his pleasure at the high honor that had been con-
ferred upon his friend, his anxiety for his safety. "That's splendid,"
he cried. Then he added with genuine concern, "But it's a dangerous
business."

Martin did not seem to care to discuss the point. "I might be able
to find some use for you in the army of the Rhine," he said thought-
fully. "I know I can/' he added with increasing warmth. "I'll start
putting the matter through before I leave for the front."

He observed his friend's excitement and thought it best to mod-
erate it. "It will take a little time in any case," he said. "There's no
sense getting you down there until I know what I'm going to do
with you."

A deep flush of joy had flooded Fernand's face. Not caring to show
his own emotion, Martin said teasingly, "But you mustn't mind if we
keep a strict eye on you," "It couldn't be stricter than it is here," Fer-
nand cheerfully remarked and added, "Thank you, Martin."

351

Chapter 10 Ermenonville Deserted

UNANNOUNCED, FERN AND drove straight to Ermenonville.

He walked through the neglected gardens, saw the broken statuary,
climbed up to the ruins of the Temple of Philosophy. Uncomfortably
seated on one of the broken columns, he looked out over lake and
park and was surprised to observe how rapidly the manicured park
was degenerating. Trees and shrubs grew unchecked; the paths were
covered with grass and weeds.

Disloyal thoughts began gently to assail him. Now that 'Forest'
and Wasteland' were less artificial, the buildings in ruins, and every-
thing overgrown and choked with weeds, Ermenonville appealed
to him more deeply than before. Perhaps if Jean- Jacques himself had
known the great broad plains of America and her endless forests, he
would have looked at the refined and playful 'Nature' at Ermenon-
ville with different eyes. Perhaps even without any knowledge of
America, Jean- Jacques might have looked for another kind of Nature
had he lived to experience the revolution.

Fernand went to his clearing and found that bushes and under-
growth had made inroads upon it. He had no desire to test the echo.
He remembered how he and the Master had once playfully vied
with each other in testing it. "Freedom and Equality," Jean-Jacques
had cried, and the echo had been confused, distorted, and menacing.

He took the path to the chateau. On the way he heard the thin
sound of violin music and followed it. Then he stopped short, aghast.
There stood Jean- Jacques playing the violin.

Yes, Monsieur Gerber, a man in his middle years but prematurely
aged, now looked incredibly like the Master. "Fernand! My Fernand!"
he cried. "Permit me to embrace you." And he laid aside his violin
and embraced Fernand.

Together they went on through the ruined park. "When I was
forced to look helplessly on while the vandals did their work/ 7 Mon-

352

sieur Gerber confessed, "I was seized by a quite unphilosophical rage.
Later, of course, I remembered that Jean-Jacques teaches us there
are times when brutality is permissible, and I suppose those people
from Senlis mistakenly assumed this to be such an occasion."

With a vague gesture at the gardens Fernand asked, "How did
my father ever bear all this?" "At first it seemed he would never
survive it," Monsieur Gerber replied. "Now he has become gentle,
almost too gentle. He is very emaciated. You must not be shocked
at his appearance."

He reverted to his philosophy. "Meanwhile, I imagine, the course
of events has provided an unequivocal demonstration to every think-
ing person that humanity cannot be taught humaneness without
bloodshed. Yet, though I know this from my Jean- Jacques and my
Lucretius, not to speak of my own experience, I am still infuriated
every time I read about the arbitrary act of the government in Paris,
and my obstinate heart says no while my mind says yes. At least,"
he concluded with a sigh of relief, "no one expects me to take any
part in it Happy the man who does not need to act."

Over on the lake, Jean-Jacques's gravestone gleamed softly among
the poplars. At the sight of it Monsieur Gerber observed with bitter
contempt, "Unimaginative men, men who are incapable of higher
feelings Voltairians maintain that it is a man's work that matters,
not his aura, and certainly not his remains. But I tell you, everything
connected with a great man is sacred the paths he trod, the trees
beneath which he walked. And thrice sacred is the place where his
remains are laid at rest. Anyone capable of removing Jean- Jacques
from his grave does not deserve to wear a human countenance. Per-
haps history will condone some of their other excesses, but that they
are going to snatch this man from his grave brands them forever as
barbarians."

In a matter-of-fact tone Fernand asked, "Does my father know
what is to happen here?" Monsieur Gerber told him, "The Marquis
has decided to leave Ermenonville before they exhume the body. He
does not intend to return."

They had reached the shores of the lake. With profound reverence
Monsieur Gerber regarded the grave that still held the body of the
Master. "Here lies the greatest mortal who has walked the earth since
Lucretius," he said, and softly, with deep emotion, he recited the
lines in which Lucretius paid homage to his master:

353

Out of the darkness and night you are the first to have raised
high above all a great torch shedding light on the wonders of
life. Following humbly your path, my immortal Master, is all
the meaning my own life needs., and the Golden Words you
have spoken will provide my soul's only nourishment.
"You must forgive me for going on like this," he said, "but all this
time I have had no one to talk to apart from your father." Fernand
pressed his hand.

Then he asked him to prepare his father for his coming. Gerber
left him and Fernand rowed himself across to the little island.

He felt little emotion. He remained strangely indifferent, here
where he had so often stood or knelt in a tumult of visions, grim or
pleasant dreams, and lofty resolutions. Monsieur Gerber's sublime
enthusiasm was denied him.

By the time Fernand reached the chateau his father had got up;
he did not wish to receive his son in bed. He embraced him, "My
son! My Fernand!" he greeted him in a voice grown sadly feeble.
"That I should have lived to see you again! And in Ermenonville!
And free! I trust you have your certificate of loyalty?" he asked
anxiously.

Though forewarned by Gerber, Fernand was stunned to observe
how weak and emaciated his father looked, and how he trembled.
He begged him to lie down again. Dismissing the servant, Fernand
himself helped his father undress.

The joyful excitement had told on Girardin. He lay for a long time
with his eyes closed. At last he said, "Did you have a very hard
time?" Sitting by the bedside, Fernand answered, "It was hard some-
times." Still with his eyes closed, Girardin went on, "I have tried to
overcome the horror of it by working. I have expanded my essay on
the General Will into a philosophical treatise." He opened his eyes
and raised himself slightly. "I shall read aloud to you from it," he
announced. "Not today. The joy of seeing you again has been hard
on me."

He smiled and lay back on the pillows. "Of course a soldier has no
business to say such things," he said, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

354

Chapter 11 Tomorrow, the Day After,
and the Rest of Our Lives

Two HOURS LATER Gilberte was there. She Bad been waiting for Fer-
nand, waiting as she had never waited before in her life.

They stood and looked at each other as if seeing each other for
the first time.

His picture of her had changed since her voice had come up to
him out of the filth and muck. His imagination had created a dream
image to fit this voice. And now Gilberte stood before him in the
flesh still the Gilberte of the old days, and perhaps the Gilberte
of his dreams too, but also an entirely different person, much firmer,
more robust, dependable. A Gilberte in rustic clothes: a girl of the
people solid, tempting, and wholesome as our good daily bread.

He, too, differed from her imaginary picture of him. Thin and
angular, his face and body even looked a little shabby. But he had
been weighed in the balance and not found wanting.

Very slowly they took each other by the hand, but they did not
embrace. After a while Fernand raised her hands to his lips, gently,
first one and then the other, and kissed the rough, uncared-for skin.

Together again after so many vicissitudes, they exchanged only a
few words, and those very commonplace. She said he looked better
than she had expected, but very thin; that she would have her work
cut out for her to put some flesh back on him. He asked whether she
did not find it difficult living at Latour with no one but her grand-
father, who must be getting more and more crusty. Their conversation
was slow and awkward, but to them it did not seem so.

Shortly afterward it was announced that the exhumation of Citi-
zen Rousseau's body would take place on the eighteenth Messidor
and the funeral ceremonies in Paris on the twentieth.

Fernand received orders to report for duty with the staff of the
army of the Rhine on the twenty-third Messidor.

The first person he informed that he was going to the front was

355

Monsieur Gerber. It was obviously a shock to Gerber, but he said
bravely, "I can appreciate your decision to fight on the side of the
barbarians. Often when I reflect upon Citizen Robespierre's acts of
terror I seem to hear a voice within me saying, *Get thee behind me,
Satan,' but then when I consider how many of Jean-Jacques's sayings
this Robespierre can cite in his own support I beg Satan to stay."

He said, as though to himself, "So the Marquis will be leaving
Ermenonville on the seventeenth Messidor, then you, too, will go,
and I shall be left alone by the empty grave. It won't be easy."

He could not resist this last opportunity to pour out his heart to
Fernand. "Next to Voltaire!" he lamented. "They are going to place
him next to Voltaire. I still cannot grasp that they are forcing this
defenseless dead man to share his last resting place with that fool
of logic. And that precisely was Jean- Jacques's greatness his per-
ception that the universe does not conform to the laws of human
logic. And now they are going to bury him beside that ape of reason!"

When Fernand told Gilberte of his impending departure she grew
deathly pale. "So you're going to America a second time," she said.
He stood uncomfortably before her, his long arms dangling, shifting
his weight back and forth from his good foot to his lame one. His
expression was troubled but resolute. Quickly Gilberte added, "No,
no, I'm not telling you not to. This time you must go. I understand
that." And she made a pathetic attempt to smile. Rather rashly
Fernand said, "That other time, too, I had to go." "But it was a pity
perhaps you will admit that," was Gilberte's reply. Suddenly she was
in his arms and they were kissing passionately.

After a while Gilberte said, "This time no Grandfather is going to
ask: 'And what will happen if she's left a widow with a child?" " "I
want more than anything to marry you, Gilberte," Fernand said, "and
with the Republican authorities there's no long petitionary pilgrimage.
But it would take a couple of weeks all the same." "Who said any-
thing about marrying!" Gilberte said indignantly, and: "Do you want
me, Fernand?" she asked.

Youth alone was left in Gilberte's melting features; all traces of
that tiny hard smile had vanished.

Afterward they lay side by side sensing the delicate interlacings
of each other's thoughts and feelings, and suddenly they both laughed
because they had taken such endless, unnecessary detours in order
to come together.

Later Gilberte asked, "I suppose you're going to Paris for Jean-

356

Jacques's state funeral?" Fernand replied that he was, and she said
without hesitation, "I shall not go with you/' With honesty and cour-
age she declared, "I am jealous of Jean- Jacques and of the people.'*
Fernand answered, a little lamely, "But you belong much more to the
people than I do." He understood that she wished to leave him to
himself on this great and trying day.

"I feel so sure that all will be well," she said as they parted. "Ours
is no short > capricious happiness, of that I am certain." And Fernand
said, "Tomorrow, the day after, and the rest of our lives."

He did not speak to his father about going to the front

Nor did he say anything to him about Jean- Jacques's exhumation.
But two days before it was to take place Girardin suddenly brought
up the subject himself. "So, day after tomorrow the crime will be
committed," he said. "These gentlemen were gracious. They offered
to entrust me with the reconstruction of my gardens. But I cannot
stay here if they take Jean- Jacques away from me. I cannot do it."
And bitterly he informed his son that he would leave Ermenonville
forever the next day and move to Monsieur Robinet's Latour. "He
has offered me asylum many times," he explained. "It won't be easy
to live with such a cantankerous person. On the other hand he has
come to appreciate Nature and good taste in his old age. He's forever
telling me I must remake his park in my manner. Though it may cost
my last remaining strength, I intend to oblige him. I shall accept no
favors from him."

Femand could not hold back any longer. "I shall not stay here
either," he said. "I am going into the army, Father."

Shaken with emotion, the Marquis tried to draw himself up. "They
are taking you into the army?" he asked. "Those men?" And now he
could keep it to himself no longer. "And they turned me down!" he
burst out. "It was Lafayette and Rochambeau who turned me down."

Fernand could guess something of the confusion of feelings over-
whelming his father. Gratification that even in this war a Girardin
would be fighting, great anxiety for his son, a faint hope that out of
the present chaos and wanton caricature of a government might yet
emerge the France of Jean- Jacques Rousseau.

"Count Bregy," his father said at last, "I am proud that you are
fighting for France. But I have doubts whether a Girardin should
serve under the command of these gentlemen." He was silent for a
moment, then went on in an altered tone, "Well, I had doubts too
when you went to America. Later I came to see that I may have been

357

wrong after all. I have become an old man. I no longer know which
of the two of us is closer to Jean-Jacques. And now, please leave me
alone. I am exhausted and would like to rest."

Fernand understood that his father did not wish to show his con-
flicting emotions, and withdrew.

He decided to leave Ermenonville early the next morning, imme-
diately after his father's departure. He did not belong here any
more. Moreover, he had affairs to attend to in Paris: he must get
his equipment and he must make certain arrangements in case he
did not return.

He rowed over to the little island, stood for the last time at Jean-
Jacques's grave. He thought of those hours of dreadful fascination
when he had sat in the pavilion reading the Confessions with Th6rese
moving back and forth behind him while he greedily devoured that
mad, magnificent work. Today he realized that Jean-Jacques, the
greatest man of his time, had been just as much a prisoner of his
own personality as was he himself, insignificant, humdrum Fernand
Girardin. Jean-Jacques, in spite of his passionate desire for truth,
had created his own imaginary heaven, which was his alone, and his
own hell, from which no one could release him his desperate
delusions.

Fernand, whose unfortunate good luck it had been to know Jean-
Jacques intimately, was aware of this. But others could approach
Jean-Jacques only through the Confessions, and for them his heaven
was the only heaven, his hell the only hell.

All at once Fernand perceived in a sharp, painful flash of realiza-
tion that Jean- Jacques's physical entity had been swallowed up by
his work. He was no longer there. He was absolutely dead as dead
as those who had been executed in his name, whose bodies had been
swallowed by the lime pit. Monsieur Gerber was wrong. Jean- Jacques
the man, these gardens in which he had walked, the woman with
whom he had slept, the bones beneath this gravestone none of
these any longer had a connection with his work. Knowledge of Jean-
Jacques the man and his wretched life merely detracted from the
understanding of his work. The Nouvelle HSloise and mile, the
Social Contract and the Confessions, each one of these books began
its life anew with every new reader, lived a life of its own apart
from the man who had created it. What life of his own he had put
into it was only seed. It went on growing and proliferating indepen-
dently, a monstrous tangle of madness and reason. It was overrunning

358

France and the world beyond as he had intended it to and also
in ways quite different from what he had intended.

On the following day Girardin told Fernand he would rather not
have his son accompany him to Latour.

They spent the last hour together. Already dressed for the journey,
Girardin sat thin and weak in his wide armchair. On a small gilt
table beside him lay the manuscript of his work on the General Will
loose unbound sheets. "I have been meaning to read to you from it,"
he said, "but I have not got around to it. Only yesterday I thought
I might do it today, but I am afraid it's too much of a strain. But
there are a few passages I should like to draw your attention to."
With a trembling hand he held out a page to Fernand, a second,
then a third. He looked at Fernand expectantly.

Fernand realized that he himself was to read them aloud. He did so.

The pages contained quotations from Jean-Jacques's books, and
Girardm's interpretations. For example, 'The General Will is always
right; if I am in disagreement with it then I am wrong/ To which the
Marquis had appended his comments. Or again, The General Will
is the union of power and freedom on the highest plane. Will and
law become one; passion is silenced by the voice of reason/

Fernand managed to read in a clear, matter-of-fact voice un-
blurred by emotion. His father listened, smiling and nodding with
satisfaction.

"The book hasn't turned out badly at all/' he observed. "Of course
it needs touching up here and there, but I do not know whether I
shall ever get to it. I have to whip the gardens at Latour into shape,
and I fear I am older than my years. Give me the pen/' he inter-
rupted himself impatiently, and at the bottom of the last page wrote,
'Finis/ "Take the manuscript," he told Fernand, "read it, and before
you leave Paris give it into the safekeeping of Doctor Leb^gue.
He is to publish it when the time is ripe." Fernand tied up the manu-
script while Girardin watched and tried to help him.

When this was finished, Girardin said in a matter-of-fact tone, "1
can well imagine that you will be very busy out there. But if you
find time, do write me occasionally. You were not very communicative
while you were in America/'

Fernand took him to his carriage. Embraced him.

An hour later he himself left for Paris.

359

Chapter 12 Jean Jacques's Transfiguration

ON THE FOLLOWING day Jean- Jacques's coffin was disinterred.

The gravediggers were dressed in their heavy Sunday clothes.
They sweated as they worked. Neither Girardin nor Fernand was
present. But members of the Convention and other dignitaries at-
tended the solemn act, and from the small point of land Monsieur
Gerber watched the outrage, his features stiff and pale as death.

Over at Latour the Marquis knew that at this hour the dreadful
crime was being committed. Gilberte had begged him to take a
sleeping potion, but he had refused; he had declined all assistance,
all companionship. He crept into bed and lay huddled, a pitiful heap
of suffering.

Their work done, the men filled the grave again and put the altar
back in place so that nothing appeared changed. The coffin made
the brief journey across the lake, and the deputies of the Conven-
tion and officials of the Republic took turns carrying it through the
park to Ermenonville. Monsieur Gerber followed, tears coursing down
his face, choked with sobs. At Ermenonville the villagers were waiting
to escort the dead man to Paris. Almost none were missing. Several
of them were weeping loudest of all, Goodman Maurice.

From all over France deputations were on their way to attend
the ceremony. Geneva, the new France's young sister republic, was
sending a sizable delegation.

Meanwhile, all along the road to Paris, members of the Convention
and of the government were waiting their turn to carry Jean-Jacques's
coffin. Thus, from shoulder to shoulder, the dead man progressed
through towns and villages specially decorated in the great, simple
style of the Republic by the painter David, France's foremost artist.
New bands of mourners continually joined the procession until, when
it reached Paris on the nineteenth Messidor, it numbered many
thousands.

360

In the garden of the Tuileries a small artificial lake had been
constructed, and in the middle of it a replica of the island of tall
poplars. Here the coffin was deposited, surrounded by torches, and
all night long crowds passed along the shores of the lake to pay
homage to the dead man.

By a happy coincidence news of victories on the northern front
arrived that same night The army of the Republic had been fighting
from the air too a true novelty in the history of war. To the strains
of the 'Marseillaise' a huge yellow sphere had risen over the little
town of Fleurus a captive balloon, a montgolfier, which had
done useful service in spotting the enemy's movements. Glorious
victory had been won out there in Flanders. When next morning
the painter David told the Convention assembled in the Tuileries
that the funeral procession was ready, the president was able to
announce to the enormous crowd from the balcony of the Tuileries
that once again the war had taken a turn for the better. Paris was now
free from danger once and for all.

The members of the Convention left the Tuileries and joined the
funeral procession. Rimmed by huge red, white, and blue streamers,
the large group of legislators marched along. Borne aloft in front
of them was the manuscript of the Social Contract.

The whole population took part in the procession. Arranged in
groups, laborers and scholars, peasants, artisans, and artists marched
along. Banners bearing inscriptions fluttered; posters and busts of all
kinds were carried.

A large tablet inscribed with the rights of man was borne in
front of representatives of the Commune of Paris. 'He was the first
to demand these rights/ its attendant banner proclaimed. A statue
of Jean-Jacques towered aloft from a carnage. It was surrounded
by an escort of citizens from Montmorency, Grolay, Franciade, whose
banner boasted: In our midst he created Heloise, Smile, the Social
Contract' The banner of the Agricultural Institute declared: In the
study of Nature he found consolation for the injustice which men
had inflicted on him.' The banner of the Genevan Republic an-
nounced boldly: 'The Geneva of the aristocrats sent its greatest son
into exile. The new Geneva has built a state by his precepts/

Slowly, endlessly the procession marched, to the surging of music,
the firing of guns, the cheering of onlookers. It was hard to see the
houses behind the masses of tricolored Republican flags. Even the
carved stone saints on the churches had their tricolors.

361

Jean-Jacques's friends walked together in a small, silent group.
They were eyed with some curiosity. Many expected to see Jean-
Jacques's widow, and some looked for die elder Girardin. These figures
were absent; perhaps they had died. But Ducis was there and
Doctor Lebegue, Pastor Moultou from Geneva, and the young
Girardin.

Fernand had dressed plainly. It was lovely weather a few
clouds of glistening whiteness sped across the clear sky, and a gentle
breeze tempered the warmth of the sun. Yet Fernand was not enjoy-
ing the day. The procession crept along at a snail's pace. In the course
of it, his lame foot had begun to pain.

He was full of rebellious thoughts. The Jacobins who were paying
tribute to Jean-Jacques would have no commerce with his greatest
book, the Confessions. The all-too-human voice of this book was
drowned out by the flourishes of bugles and trumpets with which
they hailed the Social Contract and Emile.

They had substituted their Republic for his Confessions. And
rightly. For greater than this greatest of Jean-Jacques's books was
this, his last work the Revolution. It was his most terrible, most mon-
strous, his most glorious work. It was entirely his, bearing every one
of his features. It took after him in being guilty of the same sin the
great, beneficent sin of drowning reason in the deluge of the emotions.

Since this was the case, was it not farcical to bury Jean- Jacques
next to Voltaire? Voltaire would grin as he lay in his coffin, and Jean-
Jacques would grin grimly back at him.

There were still people who regarded Voltaire as the father of the
revolution. But his acerb, brilliant logic had reached only to the
select few. It had never had any effect on the people. Voltaire's teach-
ing was a cold flame, shedding light but no warmth. Jean- Jacques
had glowing warmth. Jean- Jacques had laid the kindling and now
the whole world was on fire. The uncontrollable force of his emotions,
breaking the bounds of reason, had set the masses on the march,
swept away the old order, brought into being the fourteen armies
which were at this very moment shaking the world to its foundations
and setting it free.

Since this was so, were not the Jacobins entitled to remove Jean-
Jacques from his resting place in an aristocrat's pleasure grounds and
place him in the people's hall of honor? Let Monsieur Gerber say
what he would. The right was theirs!

And there was a logic, too, in placing Voltaire and Jean- Jacques

362

side by side though it disturbed his, Femand's feelings. For if Vol-
taire's biting intelligence had not combined with Jean- Jacques's pas-
sion, the revolution would never have been carried out.

Gradually along the march, Fernand ceased to analyze and pass
judgment. His thoughts became vague, merged with the emotion of
the people.

Today pride and joy moved the people. This was a very great man
they were bringing back, and he belonged to them the people of
Paris. He hadn't been a general or a statesman; he'd fought no vic-
torious battles and made no grand speeches. He'd only been a writer,
a philosopher, and they weren't quite sure what that was. Certainly
not one in a hundred of them had read his books. But a word or two,
a phrase or two of his had struck home to them in a critical hour
and such was their ring that a man had no choice but to march, a
man had no choice but to figjit when he heard them. So they had
marched and fought. And they had been victorious. The outcome of
it was that this dead man's books were worth more than the general's
artillery and the statesmen's palaver. Today in their hundreds of
thousands they felt an intimate bond with this great mind, and in
their bond with it, they felt themselves ennobled.

So the dead man was borne in triumph through Paris, through the
very streets down which he had been hounded in his lifetime. The
same people who had derided him as a fool now bared their heads
in homage to the wise man.

There was music and singing on all sides. But above all rose
Rouget's popular song brought from Marseille by fighters for free-
dom, and recently proclaimed the anthem of the Republic by the
National Convention the 'Marseillaise.' The bands in and outside
of the procession played the music and the tens of thousands of
marchers together with the hundreds of thousands of spectators roared
out the words: "Allans enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est ar-
riv" Blaring triumphantly from every side, the rousing song of the
Republic seemed to be powering the procession toward the Pantheon.

Whenever the marchers rounded a curve Fernand caught a glimpse
of Jean-Jacques's huge sarcophagus. He had seen the triumphal
hearse which bore the sarcophagus in the Tuileries. It was drawn by
twelve white horses. Its coachmen were dressed in costumes copied
from antiquity. Its four enormous wheels were of solid bronze. An-
tique candelabra surrounded the granite sarcophagus containing the
coffin with the body. The air about it was full of incense and perfume.

363

Upon the lid of the sarcophagus was placed a couch fashioned in the
style of the ancient Romans; on it, in a reclining position, his hand
supporting his head, was a monumental waxen image of Jean-Jacques.
The figure hulked against the sky.

Fernand was disconcerted to find that after seeing this sculptured
likeness he was unable to summon up the appearance of the real
Jean- Jacques at all clearly. He struggled to fix it in his mind, but his
recollection of the living man was overwhelmed by the solid waxen
idol borne along at its towering height in a cloud of incense. And
amidst the chords of the 'Marseillaise* the real Jean-Jacques faded into
the farthest distance, entirely out of reach. Fernand felt an intense
physical sensation at the disappearance of the true Jean-Jacques.
Whatever had been ordinary about Jean-Jacques sank away, no longer
existed. Whatever was unique and eternal about him emerged to
ride aloft up there, for all to see.

The procession reached its destination. Here, in the reign of Louis
the Fifteenth, a church to Sainte-Genevieve had been begun. The
site was the highest point of the old city on the left bank. But the
church had been a quarter of a century in the building. Louis the
Sixteenth had been dethroned before it reached completion, and
the National Assembly had converted it into a pantheon for the
burial of eminent men.

It was a magnificent building surmounted by a lofty dome. The
procession reached the splendid portico, and passed through it into
the interior.

After the din and bright sunlight outside, one was enveloped by
the cool solemnity, the twilit peace within the vast pillared hall.
Group after group entered the building the crowd within grew
ever greater. A narrow path down the center was kept free, and now
the catafalque came swaying in, borne on powerful shoulders. It was
carried up die aisle and set down.

A small figure in a blue coat detached itself from the crowd, walked
up the aisle, and under the gaze of the multitude mounted the steps
leading to the catafalque.

Maximilien Robespierre stood beside the coffin. For almost a minute
he stood motionless looking at the silent crowd. He thought of the
vow that he had taken after his conversation with Jean-Jacques, of
the pledge he had entered in his journal to destroy the old structure
and build a new one along the lines of Jean-Jacques's teachings.
The new France Jean-Jacques's France was already in being.

364

True, there still were hosts of enemies, and they craftily schemed
against him, Maximilien. In fact it was more than possible that he
might perish before the fight was over. But that would not be too
high a price for what had been achieved.

"Had Jean- Jacques been merely the greatest writer of our century,"
he began at last, speaking without raising his voice, so that his hearers
were forced to keep absolute silence "had he been no more than
its most eloquent mouthpiece, we would leave it to posterity to
assess his worth and honor his memory. But he has been more than
that; he is one of the immortal prophets of humankind. He founded
the Kingdom of Reason and extended the domain of Virtue. He was
more than a human being he was the instrument of Providence.
As a boy he beheld the peoples down on their knees before crown
and sceptre and he dared say to them: Arise. He had the courage
to carry the message of freedom and equality. Godlike himself, he
aimed his burning words straight at men's hearts and achieved what
no one had ever achieved before: the peoples rose."

Fernand listened, awe-struck. Robespierre, this uncanny man, had
followed all the dark recesses of Jean-Jacques's soul, knew what
Fernand had thought he himself was alone in knowing. 'Godlike
himself/ Robespierre had sensed that in the mad depths of his de-
spair, Jean-Jacques had been 'susceptible to no further shock, like
God/

And yet this man Robespierre saw only one side of Jean- Jacques.
He made a god of him, disregarding the Jean-Jacques of the Confes-
sions. He refused to see the Jean-Jacques of the Confessions; he toler-
ated none of the human aspects of the man whose greatest pride had
been that he was human.

"Like Socrates," Robespierre went on and now his voice, loud
and incisive, reached to the farthest corners of the great hall 'like
Socrates he brought philosophy from heaven down to earth, into the
cities, into your homes. He forced men to reflect upon their lives,
upon society and the state, justice and injustice, right and wrong. He
taught us to anchor ourselves not in the past but in the future/*

These were noble words. And for all the differences between Fer-
nand and Robespierre, they shared a common doctrine, a common
faith, a common goal.

Robespierre had finished speaking. The coffin was lifted down
from the catafalque, to be carried the short distance to the vaults.

For a brief instant Fernand had a vision of the body lying there in

365

its coffin with that gaping wound in its temple. And he saw tht,
corpse with its head caked with blood, as it had lain on the bed in
the pavilion. Then the corpse came to life for him. He saw Jean-
Jacques sitting in the clearing in mute despair; he saw Jean-Jacques
sitting contentedly with Therese; he saw the fervent faith that glowed
in his face as he declared, "Man is good"; he saw the madness in the
eyes of the Jean-Jacques who believed himself at once the foremost
and the least of mortal men.

But now the coffin began to move toward the vault, and at this
moment, unbidden and as if by prearrangement, the whole gather-
ing began to sing the 'Marseillaise/ "Aux armes, citoyens\ Formez
vo$ battaillons! Marchons! Marchonsr they sang. The song filled the
vast building as if it would burst through roof and walls. It roared
in from outside, from everywhere, as if all Paris, the whole of France,
were singing this most audacious of all songs.

The thunder of the song, the spectacle of the procession with the
coffin, swept aside Fernand's visions. He was carried away, forgetful
of everything but the moment. With a great surge of joy he became
aware that his sense of self was melting away, fusing with the emo-
tions of the crowd. He was no longer an outsider he was at one
with the singers. All that was about him pervaded him. He became
more than himself; he became a living part of the whole, became
part of the people.

"Aux armes, citoyensl Formez vos bataillonsl" The song was within
him and all around him, battering him from all sides.

There was a last glimpse of the coffin, hovering for a moment
above the vault. The song ended abruptly.

The sudden silence broke the spell for Fernand. He was cruelly,
agonizingly reminded of the crimes these brutal new disciples of Jean-
Jacques had committed in the dark intoxication of their faith. But this
sharp stab of reason and skepticism lasted only a moment. 'Marchons
quand meme* he told himself, let us march nonetheless/ He could
almost have shouted it into the silence: 'Marchons quand m&me'

For one miraculous moment he experienced the transcendent har-
mony which grandly and meaningfully linked the Nouvelle Htloise
with the Marseillaise, the noble simplicity of the island grave with the
solemn vaults of the Pantheon. He shared in Jean-Jacques's super-
abundance, in that superknowledge which is greater than reason it-
self. He saw the significance of his own life. As Jean- Jacques's humble
pupil he had had to pass through disappointment, suffering, despair,

366

to be worthy of this one moment of fulfillment. And this moment,
alone, justified his existence.

The coffin sank lower, lower, sank out of sight.

The song arose again. "Onward, onward!" it sang, while forgotten
and unforgettable Jean-Jacques disappeared into the vault and into
fame.

387

LMMQ Feaetilwamiger was bom in Munich, the son
of a wealthy industralist. He was educated there and
in Berlin. His early literary activity was chiefly in
the dramatic field. As an avid traveler, he was in
Tunis at the outbreak of World War I. Interned by
the French, he managed to escape to Germany, where
he was promptly taken into the army. In 1933, as a
novelist of international repute, he was forced into
exile by the Nazis who confiscated his fortune and
vast library. With the invasion of France in World
War II, he again became a victim of the Nazis, who
condemned him to death. Reports indeed reached the
outside world that Mr. Feuchtwanger had been be-
headed. But he managed a perilous escape to the
U. S. via Spain and Portugal. Since then, he has been
living in his beautiful California home overlooking
the Pacific Ocean, where he owns one of the finest
private libraries in the country.
LION FEUCHTWANGER'S international fame dates back
to the publication of his first novel, POWER (JEW
SUESS). His reputation grew and spread steadily with
the publication of his other novels, THE UGLY DUCHKSS,
the JOSEPHUS trilogy, SUCCESS, and more recently
PROUD DESTINY (a Literary Guild selection) and THIS
is THE HOUR (a Book of the Month Club selection).
'TIS FOLLY TO BE WISE will be published almost simul-
taneously in seventeen countries.

CD

=>

126 101

<