This was a circumstance of my life in which Providence offered me precisely what was necessary to make my days pass happily.  Merceret was a good girl, neither witty, handsome, nor ugly; not very lively, but tolerably rational, except while under the influence of some little humors, which usually evaporated in tears, without any violent outbreak of temper.  She had a real inclination for me; I might have married her without difficulty, and followed her father’s business.  My taste for music would have made me love her; I should have settled at Fribourg, a small town, not pretty, but inhabited by very worthy people—­I should certainly have missed great pleasures, but should have lived in peace to my last hour, and I must know best what I should have gained by such a step.

I did not return to Nion, but to Lausanne, wishing to gratify myself with a view of that beautiful lake which is seen there in its utmost extent.  The greater part of my secret motives have not been so reasonable.  Distant expectation has rarely strength enough to influence my actions; the uncertainty of the future ever making me regard projects whose execution requires a length of time as deceitful lures.  I give in to visionary scenes of hope as well as others, provided they cost nothing, but if attended with any trouble, I have done with them.  The smallest, the most trifling pleasure that is conveniently within my reach, tempts me more than all the joys of paradise.  I must except, however, those pleasures which are necessarily followed by pain; I only love those enjoyments which are unadulterated, which can never be the case where we are conscious they must be followed by repentance.

It was necessary I should arrive at some place, and the nearest was best; for having lost my way on the road, I found myself in the evening at Moudon, where I spent all that remained of my little stock except ten creuzers, which served to purchase my next day’s dinner.  Arriving in the evening at Lausanne, I went into an ale-house, without a penny in my pocket to pay for my lodging, or knowing what would become of me.  I found myself extremely hungry—­setting, therefore, a good face on the matter, I ordered supper, made my meal, went to bed without thought and slept with great composure.  In the morning, having breakfasted and reckoned with my host, I offered to leave my waistcoat in pledge for seven batz, which was the amount of my expenses.  The honest man refused this, saying, thank Heaven, he had never stripped any one, and would not now begin for seven batz, adding I should keep my waistcoat and pay him when I could.  I was affected with this unexpected kindness, but felt it less than I ought to have done, or have since experienced on the remembrance of it.  I did not fail sending him his money, with thanks, by one I could depend on.  Fifteen years after, passing Lausanne, on my return from Italy, I felt a sensible regret at having forgotten the name of the landlord and house.  I wished to see him, and should have felt real pleasure in recalling to his memory that worthy action.  Services which doubtless have been much more important, but rendered with ostentation, have not appeared to me so worthy of gratitude as the simple unaffected humanity of this honest man.