My father insisted upon it with his habitual good-nature; but, the more eagerness he showed, the more obstinately the old man refused; it even seemed to my father that his good intention at last excited his suspicion.  He therefore contented himself with pointing out the road to the stranger, whom he saluted, and he soon lost sight of him.

Many hours passed by, and he thought no more of the meeting.  He had reached the copses of Chaville, where, stretched on the ground in a mossy glade, he read once more the last volume of Emile.  The delight of reading it had so completely absorbed him that he had ceased to see or hear anything around him.  With his cheeks flushed and his eyes moist, he repeated aloud a passage which had particularly affected him.

An exclamation uttered close by him awoke him from his ecstasy; he raised his head, and perceived the tradesman-looking person he had met before on the crossroad at Viroflay.

He was loaded with plants, the collection of which seemed to have put him into high good-humor.

“A thousand thanks, sir,” said he to my father.  “I have found all that you told me of, and I am indebted to you for a charming walk.”

My father respectfully rose, and made a civil reply.  The stranger had grown quite familiar, and even asked if his young “brother botanist” did not think of returning to Paris.  My father replied in the affirmative, and opened his tin box to put his book back in it.

The stranger asked him with a smile if he might without impertinence ask the name of it.  My father answered that it was Rousseau’s Emile.

The stranger immediately became grave.

They walked for some time side by side, my father expressing, with the warmth of a heart still throbbing with emotion, all that this work had made him feel; his companion remaining cold and silent.  The former extolled the glory of the great Genevese writer, whose genius had made him a citizen of the world; he expatiated on this privilege of great thinkers, who reign in spite of time and space, and gather together a people of willing subjects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenly interrupted him: 

“And how do you know,” said he, mildly, “whether Jean Jacques would not exchange the reputation which you seem to envy for the life of one of the wood-cutters whose chimneys’ smoke we see?  What has fame brought him except persecution?  The unknown friends whom his books may have made for him content themselves with blessing him in their hearts, while the declared enemies that they have drawn upon him pursue him with violence and calumny!  His pride has been flattered by success:  how many times has it been wounded by satire?  And be assured that human pride is like the Sybarite who was prevented from sleeping by a crease in a roseleaf.  The activity of a vigorous mind, by which the world profits, almost always turns against him who possesses it.  He expects more from it as he grows older; the ideal