I was more affected by another publication, because it came from a man for whom I always had an esteem, and whose constancy I admired, though I pitied his blindness.  I mean the mandatory letter against me by the archbishop of Paris.  I thought to return an answer to it was a duty I owed myself.  This I felt I could do without derogating from my dignity; the case was something similar to that of the King of Poland.  I had always detested brutal disputes, after the manner of Voltaire.  I never combat but with dignity, and before I deign to defend myself I must be certain that he by whom I am attacked will not dishonor my retort.  I had no doubt but this letter was fabricated by the Jesuits, and although they were at that time in distress, I discovered in it their old principle of crushing the wretched.  I was therefore at liberty to follow my ancient maxim, by honoring the titulary author, and refuting the work which I think I did completely.

I found my residence at Motiers very agreeable, and nothing was wanting to determine me to end my days there, but a certainty of the means of subsistence.  Living is dear in that neighborhood, and all my old projects had been overturned by the dissolution of my household arrangements at Montmorency, the establishment of others, the sale or squandering of my furniture, and the expenses incurred since my departure.  The little capital which remained to me daily diminished.  Two or three years were sufficient to consume the remainder without my having the means of renewing it, except by again engaging in literary pursuits:  a pernicious profession which I had already abandoned.  Persuaded that everything which concerned me would change, and that the public, recovered from its frenzy, would make my persecutors blush, all my endeavors tended to prolong my resources until this happy revolution should take place, after which I should more at my ease choose a resource from amongst those which might offer themselves.  To this effect I took up my Dictionary of Music, which ten years’ labor had so far advanced as to leave nothing wanting to it but the last corrections.  My books which I had lately received, enabled me to finish this work; my papers sent me by the same conveyance, furnished me with the means of beginning my memoirs to which I was determined to give my whole attention.  I began by transcribing the letters into a book, by which my memory might be guided in the order of fact and time.  I had already selected those I intended to keep for this purpose, and for ten years the series was not interrupted.  However, in preparing them for copying I found an interruption at which I was surprised.  This was for almost six months, from October, 1756, to March following.  I recollected having put into my selection a number of letters from Diderot, De Leyre, Madam d’ Epinay, Madam de Chenonceaux, etc., which filled up the void and were missing.  What was become of them?  Had any person laid their hands upon my papers whilst