It might have been proved to Helvetius that the propositions that the first motive is always self-interest, and that we should always consult our own interest first, are fallacious.  It is a strange thing that so virtuous a man would not admit the existence of virtue.  It is an amusing suggestion that he only published his book out of modesty, but that would have contradicted his own system.  But if it were so, was it well done to render himself contemptible to escape the imputation of pride?  Modesty is only a virtue when it is natural; if it is put on, or merely the result of training, it is detestable.  The great d’Alembert was the most truly modest man I have ever seen.

When I got to Brussels, where I spent two days, I went to the “Hotel de l’Imperatrice,” and chance sent Mdlle.  X. C. V. and Farsetti in my way, but I pretended not to see them.  From Brussels I went straight to the Hague, and got out at the “Prince of Orange.”  On my asking the host who sat down at his table, he told me his company consisted of general officers of the Hanoverian army, same English ladies, and a Prince Piccolomini and his wife; and this made me make up my mind to join this illustrious assemblage.

I was unknown to all, and keeping my eyes about me I gave my chief attention to the observation of the supposed Italian princess, who was pretty enough, and more especially of her husband whom I seemed to recognize.  In the course of conversation I heard some talk of the celebrated St. Germain, and it seemed that he was stopping in the same hotel.

I had returned to my room, and was thinking of going to bed, when Prince Piccolomini entered, and embraced me as an old friend.

“A look in your face,” said he, “tells me that the recognition has been mutual.  I knew you directly in spite of the sixteen years that have passed since we saw each other at Vicenza.  To-morrow you can tell everybody that we are friends, and that though I am not a prince I am really a count; here is my passport from the King of Naples, pray read it.”

During this rapid monologue I could not get in a single word, and on attentively scanning his features I could only recollect that I had seen him before, but when or where or how I knew not.  I opened the passport and read the name of Ruggero di Rocco, Count Piccolomini.  That was enough; I remembered an individual of that name who was a fencing-master in Vicenza, and on looking at him again his aspect, though much changed left no doubt as to the identity of the swordsman and the count.

“I congratulate you,” said I, “on your change of employment, your new business is doubtless much better than the old.”

“I taught fencing,” he replied, “to save myself from dying of hunger, for my father was so hard a man that he would not give me the wherewithal to live, and I disguised my name so as not to disgrace it.  On my father’s death I succeeded to the property, and at Rome I married the lady you have seen.”