The reader will remember that my mistress had promised to pardon my infidelities, provided that I confessed them.  I had none to confess, but in the course of conversation I told her about Raton.

“We ought to think ourselves very fortunate,” said she, “for if it had not been for chance, we should have been in a fine state now.”

“Yes, and I should be in despair.”

“I don’t doubt it, and you would be all the more wretched as I should never complain to you.”

“I only see one way of providing against such a misfortune.  When I have been unfaithful to you I will punish myself by depriving myself of the pleasure of giving you proofs of my affection till I am certain that I can do so without danger.”

“Ah! you would punish me for your faults, would you?  If you love me as I love you, believe me you would find a better remedy than that.”

“What is that?”

“You would never be unfaithful to me.”

“You are right.  I am sorry I was not the first to think of this plan, which I promise to follow for the future.”

“Don’t make any promises,” said she, with a sigh, “it might prove too difficult to keep them.”

It is only love which can inspire such conversations, but unfortunately it gains nothing by them.

Next morning, just as I was going out to take my letters, the Baron de Bercei, uncle of my friend Bavois, entered.

“I know,” said he, “that my nephew owes his fortune to you; he is just going to be made general, and I and all the family will be enchanted to make your acquaintance.  I have come to offer my services, and to beg that you will dine with me to-day, and on any other day you please when you have nothing better to do, and I hope you will always consider yourself of the family.

“At the same time I beg of you not to tell anybody that my nephew has become a Catholic, as according to the prejudices of the country it would be a dishonour which would reflect on the whole family.”

I accepted his invitation, and promised to say nothing about the circumstance he had mentioned.

I left my letters of introduction, and I received everywhere a welcome of the most distinguished kind.  Madame de Gentil-Langalerie appeared the most amiable of all the ladies I called on, but I had not time to pay my court to one more than another.  Every day politeness called me to some dinner, supper, ball, or assembly.  I was bored beyond measure, and I felt inclined to say how troublesome it is to have such a welcome.  I spent a fortnight in the little town, where everyone prides himself on his liberty, and in all my life I have never experienced such a slavery, for I had not a moment to myself.  I was only able to pass one night with my sweetheart, and I longed to set off with her for Geneva.  Everybody would give me letters of introduction for M. de Voltaire, and by their eagerness one would have thought the great man beloved, whereas all detested him on account of his sarcastic humour.