“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 he pursues continually disgusts him with the actual; he is like a man who, with a too-refined sight, discerns spots and blemishes in the most beautiful face.  I will not speak of stronger temptations and of deeper downfalls.  Genius, you have said, is a kingdom; but what virtuous man is not afraid of being a king?  He who feels only his great powers, is—­with the weaknesses and passions of our nature—­preparing for great failures.  Believe me, sir, the unhappy man who wrote this book is no object of admiration or of envy; but, if you have a feeling heart, pity him!”

My father, astonished at the excitement with which his companion pronounced these last words, did not know what to answer.

Just then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle to that of Versailles; a carriage was passing.

The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated: 

“There is Jean Jacques—­there is Rousseau!”

Then the carriage disappeared in the distance.

My father remained motionless, confounded, and amazed, his eyes wide open, and his hands clasped.

Rousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his name spoken, turned toward him: 

“You see,” said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his later misfortunes had produced in him, “Jean Jacques cannot even hide himself:  he is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, and to all he is a public thing, at which they point the finger.  It would signify less if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, as soon as a man has had the misfortune to make himself a name, he becomes public property.  Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivial actions, and insults his feelings; he becomes like those walls, which every passer-by may deface with some abusive writing.  Perhaps you will say that I have myself encouraged this curiosity by publishing my Confessions.  But the world forced me to it.  They looked into my house through the blinds, and they slandered me; I have opened the doors and windows, so that they should at least know me such as I am.  Adieu, sir.  Whenever you wish to know the worth of fame, remember that you have seen Rousseau.”