We made an appointment at a cafe in the Champs Elysees.  In the morning we took some chocolate.  The wind was westerly, and the air fresh.  The sun was surrounded by white clouds, spread in masses over an azure sky.  Reaching the Bois de Boulogne by eight o’clock, Jean Jacques set to work botanising.  As he collected his little harvest, we kept walking along.  We had gone through part of the wood, when in the midst of the solitude we perceived two young girls, one of whom was arranging the other’s hair.—­[Reminded them of some verses of Virgil.]....

Arrived on the edge of the river, we crossed the ferry with a number of people whom devotion was taking to Mont Valerien.  We climbed an extremely stiff slope, and were hardly on the top before hunger overtook us and we began to think of dining.  Rousseau then led the way towards a hermitage, where he knew we could make sure of hospitality.  The brother who opened to us, conducted us to the chapel, where they were reciting the litanies of providence, which are extremely beautiful....  When we had prayed, Jean Jacques said to me with genuine feeling:  “Now I feel what is said in the gospel, ’Where several of you are gathered together in my name, there will I be in the midst of them.’  There is a sentiment of peace and comfort here that penetrates the soul.”  I replied, “If Fenelon were alive, you would be a Catholic.”  “Ah,” said he, the tears in his eyes, “if Fenelon were alive, I would seek to be his lackey.”

Presently we were introduced into the refectory; we seated ourselves during the reading.  The subject was the injustice of the complainings of man:  God has brought him from nothing, he oweth him nothing.  After the reading, Rousseau said to me in a voice of deep emotion:  “Ah, how happy is the man who can believe....”  We walked about for some time in the cloister and the gardens.  They command an immense prospect.  Paris in the distance reared her towers all covered with light, and made a crown to the far-spreading landscape.  The brightness of the view contrasted with the great leaden clouds that rolled after one another from the west, and seemed to fill the valley....  In the afternoon rain came on, as we approached the Porte Maillot.  We took shelter along with a crowd of other holiday folk under some chestnut-trees whose leaves were coming out.  One of the waiters of a tavern perceiving Jean Jacques, rushed to him full of joy, exclaiming, “What, is it you, mon bonhomme?  Why, it is a whole age since we have seen you.”  Rousseau replied cheerfully, “’Tis because my wife has been ill, and I myself have been out of sorts.” “Mon pauvre bonhomme,” replied the lad, “you must not stop here; come in, come in, and I will find room for you.”  He hurried us along to a room upstairs, where in spite of the crowd he procured for us chairs and a table, and bread and wine.  I said to Jean Jacques, “He seems very familiar with you.”