increased by not being able myself to refrain from laughter.  These little intervals, in which I enjoyed the pleasure of grumbling, were charming; and if, during the dispute, another importunate visitor arrived, she would add to her amusement by maliciously prolonging the visit, meantime casting glances at me for which I could almost have beat her; nor could she without difficulty refrain from laughter on seeing my constrained politeness, though every moment glancing at her the look of a fury, while, even in spite of myself, I thought the scene truly diverting.

All this, without being pleasing in itself, contributed to amuse, because it made up a part of a life which I thought delightful.  Nothing that was performed around me, nothing that I was obliged to do, suited my taste, but everything suited my heart; and I believe, at length, I should have liked the study of medicine, had not my natural distaste to it perpetually engaged us in whimsical scenes, that prevented my thinking of it in a serious light.  It was, perhaps, the first time that this art produced mirth.  I pretended to distinguish a physical book by its smell, and what was more diverting, was seldom mistaken.  Madam de Warrens made me taste the most nauseous drugs; in vain I ran, or endeavored to defend myself; spite of resistance or wry faces, spite of my struggles, or even of my teeth, when I saw her charming fingers approach my lips, I was obliged to give up the contest.

When shut up in an apartment with all her medical apparatus, any one who had heard us running and shouting amidst peals of laughter would rather have imagined we had been acting a farce than preparing opiates or elixirs.

My time, however, was not entirely passed in these fooleries; in the apartment which I occupied I found a few books:  there was the Spectator, Puffendorf, St. Everemond, and the Henriade.  Though I had not my old passion for books, yet I amused myself with reading a part of them.  The Spectator was particularly pleasing and serviceable to me.  The Abbe de Gauvon had taught me to read less eagerly, and with a greater degree of attention, which rendered my studies more serviceable.  I accustomed myself to reflect on elocution and the elegance of composition; exercising myself in discerning pure French from my provincial idiom.  For example, I corrected an orthographical fault (which I had in common with all Genevese) by these two lines of the Henriade: 

     Soit qu’ un ancient respect pour le sang de leurs maitres,
     Parlat encore pour lui dans le coeur de ces traitres

I was struck with the word ‘parlat’, and found a ‘t’ was necessary to form the third person of the subjunctive, whereas I had always written and pronounced it parla, as in the present of the indicative.