Between Barre and Montmorency I met, in a hired carriage, four men in black, who saluted me smilingly.  According to what Theresa has since told me of the officers of justice, the hour of their arrival and their manner of behavior, I have no doubt, that they were the persons I met, especially as the order to arrest me, instead of being made out at seven o’clock, as I had been told it would, had not been given till noon.  I had to go through Paris.  A person in a cabriolet is not much concealed.  I saw several persons in the streets who saluted me with an air of familiarity but I did not know one of them.  The same evening I changed my route to pass Villeroy.  At Lyons the couriers were conducted to the commandant.  This might have been embarrassing to a man unwilling either to lie or change his name.  I went with a letter from Madam de Luxembourg to beg M. de Villeroy would spare me this disagreeable ceremony.  M. de Villeroy gave me a letter of which I made no use, because I did not go through Lyons.  This letter still remains sealed up amongst my papers.  The duke pressed me to sleep at Villeroy, but I preferred returning to the great road, which I did, and travelled two more stages the same evening.

My carriage was inconvenient and uncomfortable, and I was too much indisposed to go far in a day.  My appearance besides was not sufficiently distinguished for me to be well served, and in France post-horses feel the whip in proportion to the favorable opinion the postillion has of his temporary master.  By paying the guides generously thought I should make up for my shabby appearance:  this was still worse.  They took me for a worthless fellow who was carrying orders, and, for the first time in my life, travelling post.  From that moment I had nothing but worn-out hacks, and I became the sport of the postillions.  I ended as I should have begun by being patient, holding my tongue, and suffering myself to be driven as my conductors thought proper.

I had sufficient matter of reflection to prevent me from being weary on the road, employing myself in the recollection of that which had just happened; but this was neither my turn of mind nor the inclination of my heart.  The facility with which I forget past evils, however recent they may be, is astonishing.  The remembrance of them becomes feeble, and, sooner or later, effaced, in the inverse proportion to the greater degree of fear with which the approach of them inspires me.  My cruel imagination, incessantly tormented by the apprehension of evils still at a distance, diverts my attention, and prevents me from recollecting those which are past.  Caution is needless after the evil has happened, and it is time lost to give it a thought.  I, in some measure, put a period to my misfortunes before they happen:  the more I have suffered at their approach the greater is the facility with which I forget them; whilst, on the contrary, incessantly recollecting my past happiness,