him money, he had never lent me any; I had attended him in his illness, he scarcely came to see me in mine; I had given him all my friends, he never had given me any of his; I had said everything I could in his favor, and if ever he has spoken of me it has been less publicly and in another manner.  He has never either rendered or offered me the least service of any kind.  How, therefore, was he my Mecaenas?  In what manner was I protected by him?  This was incomprehensible to me, and still remains so.

It is true, he was more or less arrogant with everybody, but I was the only person with whom he was brutally so.  I remember Saint Lambert once ready to throw a plate at his head, upon his, in some measure, giving him the lie at table by vulgarly saying, “That is not true.”  With his naturally imperious manner he had the self-sufficiency of an upstart, and became ridiculous by being extravagantly impertinent.  An intercourse with the great had so far intoxicated him that he gave himself airs which none but the contemptible part of them ever assume.  He never called his lackey but by “Eh!” as if amongst the number of his servants my lord had not known which was in waiting.  When he sent him to buy anything, he threw the money upon the ground instead of putting it into his hand.  In short, entirely forgetting he was a man, he treated him with such shocking contempt, and so cruel a disdain in everything, that the poor lad, a very good creature, whom Madam d’Epinay had recommended, quitted his service without any other complaint than that of the impossibility of enduring such treatment.  This was the la Fleur of this new presuming upstart.

As these things were nothing more than ridiculous, but quite opposite to my character, they contributed to render him suspicious to me.  I could easily imagine that a man whose head was so much deranged could not have a heart well placed.  He piqued himself upon nothing so much as upon sentiments.  How could this agree with defects which are peculiar to little minds?  How can the continued overflowings of a susceptible heart suffer it to be incessantly employed in so many little cares relative to the person?  He who feels his heart inflamed with this celestial fire strives to diffuse it, and wishes to show what he internally is.  He would wish to place his heart in his countenance, and thinks not of other paint for his cheeks.

I remember the summary of his morality which Madam d’Epinay had mentioned to me and adopted.  This consisted in one single article; that the sole duty of man is to follow all the inclinations of his heart.  This morality, when I heard it mentioned, gave me great matter of reflection, although I at first considered it solely as a play of wit.  But I soon perceived it was a principle really the rule of his conduct, and of which I afterwards had, at my own expense, but too many convincing proofs.  It is the interior doctrine Diderot has so frequently intimated to me, but which I never heard him explain.