is wife if he had foreseen that this
monstrous recantation would make his book into a fraud; for he had to
confess that he had written without due reflection, that he was more in
jest than earnest, and that his arguments were mere sophisms. But many
men of keen intellects had not waited for him to recant before exposing
this wretched system of his. And admitting that whatever man does is done
for his own interest, does it follow that gratitude is a folly, and
virtue and vice identical? Are a villain and a man of honour to be
weighed in the same balance? If such a dreadful system were not absurd,
virtue would be mere hypocrisy; and if by any possibility it were true,
it ought to be proscribed by general consent, since it would lead to
general ruin and corruption.

It might have been proved to Helvetius that the propositions that the
first motive is always self-interest, and that we should always consult
our own interest first, are fallacious. It is a strange thing that so
virtuous a man would not admit the existence of virtue. It is an amusing
suggestion that he only published his book out of modesty, but that would
have contradicted his own system. But if it were so, was it well done to
render himself contemptible to escape the imputation of pride? Modesty
is only a virtue when it is natural; if it is put on, or merely the
result of training, it is detestable. The great d'Alembert was the most
truly modest man I have ever seen.

When I got to Brussels, where I spent two days, I went to the "Hotel de
l'Imperatrice," and chance sent Mdlle. X. C. V. and Farsetti in my way,
but I pretended not to see them. From Brussels I went straight to the
Hague, and got out at the "Prince of Orange." On my asking the host who
sat down at his table, he told me his company consisted of general
officers of the Hanoverian army, same English ladies, and a Prince
Piccolomini and his wife; and this made me make up my mind to join this
illustrious assemblage.

I was unknown to all, and keeping my eyes about me I gave my chief
attention to the observation of the supposed Italian princess, who was
pretty enough, and more especially of her husband whom I seemed to
recognize. In the course of conversation I heard some talk of the
celebrated St. Germain, and it seemed that he was stopping in the same
hotel.

I had returned to my room, and was thinking of going to bed, when Prince
Piccolomini entered, and embraced me as an old friend.

"A lo