We wept, and Lebel laughed to see us.

I could only reply by pressing her to my breast, and then I gave her over to her future husband, who told me as he got into the carriage that our long talk had pleased him very much.

I went to bed sadly enough.  Next morning when I awoke, a pastor of the Church of Geneva came to ask me to give him a place in my carriage.  I agreed, and was not sorry I had done so.

This priest was an eloquent man, although a theologian, who answered the most difficult religious questions I could put to him.  There was no mystery with him, everything was reason.  I have never found a more compliant Christianity than that of this worthy man, whose morals, as I heard afterwards at Geneva, were perfectly pure.  But I found out that this kind of Christianity was not peculiar to him, all his fellow-Calvinists thought in the same way.

Wishing to convince him that he was a Calvinist in name only, since he did not believe that Jesus Christ was of the same substance as the Father, he replied that Calvin was only infallible where he spoke ’ex cathedra’, but I struck him dumb by quoting the words of the Gospel.  He blushed when I reproached him with Calvin’s belief that the Pope was the Antichrist of the Apocalypse.

“It will be impossible to destroy this prejudice at Geneva,” said he, “till the Government orders the effacement of an inscription on the church door which everybody reads, and which speaks of the head of the Roman Church in this manner.”

“The people,” he added, “are wholly ignorant; but I have a niece of twenty, who does not belong to the people in this way.  I shall have the honour of making you known to her; she is a theologian, and pretty as well.”

“I shall be delighted to see her, but God preserve me from arguing with her!”

“She will make you argue, and I can assure you that it will be a pleasure for you!”

“We shall see; but will you give me your address?”

“No sir, but I shall have the honour of conducting you to your inn and acting as your guide.”

I got down at Balances, and was well lodged.  It was the 20th of August, 1760.  On going to the window I noticed a pane of glass on which I read these words, written with the point of a diamond:  “You will forget Henriette.”  In a moment my thoughts flew back to the time in which Henriette had written these words, thirteen years ago, and my hair stood on end.  We had been lodged in this room when she separated from me to return to France.  I was overwhelmed, and fell on a chair where I abandoned myself to deep thought.  Noble Henriette, dear Henriette, whom I had loved so well; where was she now?  I had never heard of her; I had never asked anyone about her.  Comparing my present and past estates, I was obliged to confess that I was less worthy of possessing her now than then.  I could still love, but I was no longer so delicate in my thoughts; I had not those feelings