About this time Madame d’Urfe conceived a wish to make the acquaintance of J. J. Rousseau, and we went to call upon him at Montmorenci, on the pretext of giving him music to copy—­an occupation in which he was very skilled.  He was paid twice the sum given to any other copyist, but he guaranteed that the work should be faultlessly done.  At that period of his life copying music was the great writer’s sole means of subsistence.

We found him to be a man of a simple and modest demeanour, who talked well, but who was not otherwise distinguished either intellectually or physically.  We did not think him what would be called a good-natured man, and as he was far from having the manners of good society Madame d’Urfe did not hesitate to pronounce him vulgar.  We saw the woman with whom he lived, and of whom we had heard, but she scarcely looked at us.  On our way home we amused ourselves by talking about Rousseau’s eccentric habits.

I will here note down the visit of the Prince of Conti (father of the gentleman who is now known as the Comte de la March) to Rousseau.

The prince—­a good-natured man-went by himself to Montmorenci, on purpose to spend a day in conversation with the philosopher, who was even then famous.  He found him in the park, accosted him, and said that he had come to dine with him and to talk without restraint.

“Your highness will fare but badly,” said Rousseau:  “however, I will tell them to lay another knife and fork.”

The philosopher gave his instructions, and came out and rejoined the prince, with whom he walked up and down for two or three hours.  When it was dinner-time he took the prince into his dining-room, where the table was laid for three.

“Who is going to dine with us?” said the prince.  “I thought we were to be alone.”

“The third party,” said Rousseau, “is my other self—­a being who is neither my wife, nor my mistress, nor my servant-maid, nor my mother, nor my daughter, but yet personates all these characters at once.”

“I daresay, my dear fellow, I daresay; but as I came to dine with you alone, I will not dine with your—­other self, but will leave you with all the rest of you to keep your company.”

So saying the prince bade him farewell and went out.  Rousseau did not try to keep him.

About this time I witnessed the failure of a play called ‘Aristides’ Daughter’, written by the ingenious Madame de Graffini, who died of vexation five days after her play was damned.  The Abbe de Voisenon was horrified, as he had advised the lady to produce it, and was thought to have had some hand in its composition, as well as in that of the ’Lettres Peruviennes’ and ‘Cenie’.  By a curious coincidence, just about the same date, Rezzonico’s mother died of joy because her son had become pope.  Grief and joy kill many more women than men, which proves that if women have mere feeling than men they have also less strength.