them to be.  It was not judged that the permission he had extorted to make my letter public exempted him from the blame of having so lightly taken me at my word to do me an injury.  People continually asked what personal complaints he had against me to authorize so violent a hatred.  Finally, it was thought that if even my behavior had been such as to authorize him to break with me, friendship, although extinguished, had rights which he ought to have respected.  But unfortunately the inhabitants of Paris are frivolous; remarks of the moment are soon forgotten; the absent and unfortunate are neglected; the man who prospers secures favor by his presence; the intriguing and malicious support each other, renew their vile efforts, and the effects of these, incessantly succeeding each other, efface everything by which they were preceded.

Thus, after having so long deceived me, this man threw aside his mask; convinced that, in the state to which he had brought things, he no longer stood in need of it.  Relieved from the fear of being unjust towards the wretch, I left him to his reflections, and thought no more of him.  A week afterwards I received an answer from Madam d’Epinay, dated from Geneva.  I understood from the manner of her letter, in which for the first time in her life, she put on airs of state with me, that both depending but little upon the success of their measures, and considering me a man inevitably lost, their intentions were to give themselves the pleasure of completing my destruction.

In fact, my situation was deplorable.  I perceived all my friends withdrew themselves from me without knowing how or for why.  Diderot, who boasted of the continuation of his attachment, and who, for three months past, had promised me a visit, did not come.  The winter began to make its appearance, and brought with it my habitual disorders.  My constitution, although vigorous, had been unequal to the combat of so many opposite passions.  I was so exhausted that I had neither strength nor courage sufficient to resist the most trifling indisposition.  Had my engagements; and the continued remonstrances of Diderot and Madam de Houdetot then permitted me to quit the Hermitage, I knew not where to go, nor in what manner to drag myself along.  I remained stupid and immovable.  The idea alone of a step to take, a letter to write, or a word to say, made me tremble.  I could not however do otherwise than reply to the letter of Madam d’Epinay without acknowledging myself to be worthy of the treatment with which she and her friend overwhelmed me.  I determined upon notifying to her my sentiments and resolutions, not doubting a moment that from humanity, generosity, propriety, and the good manner of thinking, I imagined I had observed in her, notwithstanding her bad one, she would immediately subscribe to them.  My letter was as follows: 

Hermitage23d Nov., 1757.

“Were it possible to die of grief I should not now be alive.