The time of ordination being arrived, M. Gatier returned to his province as deacon, leaving me with gratitude, attachment, and sorrow for his loss.  The vows I made for him were no more answered than those I offered for myself.  Some years after, I learned, that being vicar of a parish, a young girl was with child by him, being the only one (though he possessed a very tender heart) with whom he was ever in love.  This was a dreadful scandal in a diocese severely governed, where the priests (being under good regulation) ought never to have children—­except by married women.  Having infringed this politic law, he was put in prison, defamed, and driven from his benefice.  I know not whether it was ever after in his power to reestablish his affairs; but the remembrance of his misfortunes, which were deeply engraven on my heart, struck me when I wrote Emilius, and uniting M. Gatier with M. Gaime, I formed from these two worthy priests the character of the Savoyard Vicar, and flatter myself the imitation has not dishonored the originals.

While I was at the seminary, M. d’Aubonne was obliged to quit Annecy, Moultou being displeased that he made love to his wife, which was acting like a dog in the manger, for though Madam Moultou was extremely amiable, he lived very ill with her, treating her with such brutality that a separation was talked of.  Moultou, by repeated oppressions, at length procured a dismissal from his employment:  he was a disagreeable man; a mole could not be blacker, nor an owl more knavish.  It is said the provincials revenge themselves on their enemies by songs; M. d’Aubonne revenged himself on his by a comedy, which he sent to Madam de Warrens, who showed it to me.  I was pleased with it, and immediately conceived the idea of writing one, to try whether I was so silly as the author had pronounced me.  This project was not executed till I went to Chambery, where I wrote ‘The Lover of Himself’.  Thus when I said in the preface to that piece, “it was written at eighteen,” I cut off a few years.

Nearly about this time an event happened, not very important in itself, but whose consequence affected me, and made a noise in the world when I had forgotten it.  Once a week I was permitted to go out; it is not necessary to say what use I made of this liberty.  Being one Sunday at Madam de Warrens, a building belonging to the Cordeliers, which joined her house, took fire; this building which contained their oven, being full of dry fagots, blazed violently and greatly endangered the house; for the wind happening to drive the flames that way, it was covered with them.  The furniture, therefore, was hastily got out and carried into the garden which fronted the windows, on the other side the before-mentioned brook.  I was so alarmed that I threw indiscriminately everything that came to hand out of the window, even to a large stone mortar, which at another time I should have found it difficult to remove, and should have thrown