Won by their advances, my heart abandoned itself without reserve, especially to M. Dastier, with whose open countenance I was more particularly pleased.  I even corresponded with him, and when I determined to print the ‘Letters from the Mountains’, I thought of addressing myself to him, to deceive those by whom my packet was waited for upon the road to Holland.  He had spoken to me a good deal, and perhaps purposely, upon the liberty of the press at Avignon; he offered me his services should I have anything to print there:  I took advantage of the offer and sent him successively by the post my first sheets.  After having kept these for some time, he sent them back to me, “Because,” said he, “no bookseller dared to sell them;” and I was obliged to have recourse to Rey taking care to send my papers, one after the other, and not to part with those which succeeded until I had advice of the reception of those already sent.  Before the work was published, I found it had been seen in the office of the ministers, and D’Escherny, of Neuchatel, spoke to me of the book, entitled ‘Del’ Homme de la Monlagne’, which D’Holbach had told him was by me.  I assured him, and it was true, that I never had written a book which bore that title.  When the letters appeared he became furious, and accused me of falsehood; although I had told him truth.  By this means I was certain my manuscript had been read; as I could not doubt the fidelity of Rey, the most rational conjecture seemed to be, that my packets had been opened at the post-house.

Another acquaintance I made much about the same time, but which was begun by letters, was that with M. Laliand of Nimes, who wrote to me from Paris, begging I would send him my profile; he said he was in want of it for my bust in marble, which Le Moine was making for him to be placed in his library.  If this was a pretence invented to deceive me, it fully succeeded.  I imagined that a man who wished to have my bust in marble in his library had his head full of my works, consequently of my principles, and that he loved me because his mind was in unison with mine.  It was natural this idea should seduce me.  I have since seen M. Laliand.  I found him very ready to render me many trifling services, and to concern himself in my little affairs, but I have my doubts of his having, in the few books he ever read, fallen upon any one of those I have written.  I do not know that he has a library, or that such a thing is of any use to him; and for the bust he has a bad figure in plaster, by Le Moine, from which has been engraved a hideous portrait that bears my name, as if it bore to me some resemblance.