After having from day to day delayed these very disagreeable steps, I at length took courage, and called upon Madam de Beuzenval.  She received me with kindness; and Madam de Broglio entering the chamber, she said to her:  “Daughter, this is M. Rousseau, of whom Father Castel has spoken to us.”  Madam de Broglie complimented me upon my work, and going to her harpsichord proved to me she had already given it some attention.  Perceiving it to be about one o’clock, I prepared to take my leave.  Madam de Beuzenval said to me:  “You are at a great distance from the quarter of the town in which you reside; stay and dine here.”  I did not want asking a second time.  A quarter of an hour afterwards, I understood, by a word, that the dinner to which she had invited me was that of her servants’ hall.  Madam de Beuzenval was a very good kind of woman, but of a confined understanding, and too full of her illustrious Polish nobility:  she had no idea of the respect due to talents.  On this occasion, likewise, she judged me by my manner rather than by my dress, which, although very plain, was very neat, and by no means announced a man to dine with servants.  I had too long forgotten the way to the place where they eat to be inclined to take it again.  Without suffering my anger to appear, I told Madam de Beuzenval that I had an affair of a trifling nature which I had just recollected obliged me to return home, and I immediately prepared to depart.  Madam de Broglie approached her mother, and whispered in her ear a few words which had their effect.  Madam de Beuzenval rose to prevent me from going, and said, “I expect that you will do us the honor to dine with us.”  In this case I thought to show pride would be a mark of folly, and I determined to stay.  The goodness of Madam de Broglie had besides made an impression upon me, and rendered her interesting in my eyes.  I was very glad to dine with her, and hoped, that when she knew me better, she would not regret having procured me that honor.  The President de Lamoignon, very intimate in the family, dined there also.  He, as well as Madam de Broglie, was a master of all the modish and fashionable small talk jargon of Paris.  Poor Jean Jacques was unable to make a figure in this way.  I had sense enough not to pretend to it, and was silent.  Happy would it have been for me, had I always possessed the same wisdom; I should not be in the abyss into which I am now fallen.  I was vexed at my own stupidity, and at being unable to justify to Madam de Broglie what she had done in my favor.

After dinner I thought of my ordinary resource.  I had in my pocket an epistle in verse, written to Parisot during my residence at Lyons.  This fragment was not without some fire, which I increased by my manner of reading, and made them all three shed tears.  Whether it was vanity, or really the truth, I thought the eyes of Madam de Broglie seemed to say to her mother:  “Well, mamma, was I wrong in telling