I passed through Geneva without visiting any one.  While going over the bridges, I found myself so affected that I could scarcely proceed.  Never could I see the walls of that city, never could I enter it, without feeling my heart sink from excess of tenderness, at the same time that the image of liberty elevated my soul.  The ideas of equality, union, and gentleness of manners, touched me even to tears, and inspired me with a lively regret at having forfeited all these advantages.  What an error was I in! but yet how natural!  I imagined I saw all this in my native country, because I bore it in my heart.

It was necessary to pass through Nion:  could I do this without seeing my good father?  Had I resolved on doing so, I must afterwards have died with regret.  I left Merceret at the inn, and ventured to his house.  How wrong was I to fear him!  On seeing me, his soul gave way to the parental tenderness with which it was filled.  What tears were mingled with our embraces!  He thought I was returned to him:  I related my history, and informed him of my resolution.  He opposed it feebly, mentioning the dangers to which I exposed myself, and telling me the shortest follies were best, but did not attempt to keep me by force, in which particular I think he acted right; but it is certain he did not do everything in his power to detain me, even by fair means.  Whether after the step I had taken, he thought I ought not to return, or was puzzled at my age to know what to do with me—­I have since found that he conceived a very unjust opinion of my travelling companion.  My step —­mother, a good woman, a little coaxingly put on an appearance of wishing me to stay to supper; I did not, however, comply, but told them I proposed remaining longer with them on my return; leaving as a deposit my little packet, that had come by water, and would have been an incumbrance, had I taken it with me.  I continued my journey the next morning, well satisfied that I had seen my father, and had taken courage to do my duty.

We arrived without any accident at Fribourg.  Towards the conclusion of the journey, the politeness of Mademoiselle Merceret rather diminished, and, after our arrival, she treated me even with coldness.  Her father, who was not in the best circumstances, did not show me much attention, and I was obliged to lodge at an alehouse.  I went to see them the next morning, and received an invitation to dine there, which I accepted.  We separated without tears at night; I returned to my paltry lodging, and departed the second day after my arrival, almost without knowing whither to go to.