my letter, was ineffectual, and I received no answer to either.
The silence of that unjust man hurt me extremely, and did not contribute
to increase the very moderate good opinion I always had of his character
and abilities. It was in this manner the managers kept my piece while
they deprived me of that for which I had given it them. From the weak to
the strong, such an act would be a theft: from the strong to the weak,
it is nothing more than an appropriation of property, without a right.

With respect to the pecuniary advantages of the work, although it did not
produce me a fourth part of the sum it would have done to any other.
person, they were considerable enough to enable me to subsist several
years, and to make amends for the ill success of copying, which went on
but very slowly. I received a hundred louis from the king; fifty from
Madam de Pompadour, for the performance at Bellevue, where she herself
played the part of Colin; fifty from the opera; and five hundred livres
from Pissot, for the engraving; so that this interlude, which cost me no
more than five or six weeks' application, produced, notwithstanding the
ill treatment I received from the managers and my stupidity at court,
almost as much money as my 'Emilius', which had cost me twenty years'
meditation, and three years' labor. But I paid dearly for the pecuniary
ease I received from the piece, by the infinite vexations it brought upon
me. It was the germ of the secret jealousies which did not appear until
a long time afterwards. After its success I did not remark, either in
Grimm, Diderot, or any of the men of letters, with whom I was acquainted,
the same cordiality and frankness, nor that pleasure in seeing me, I had
previously experienced. The moment I appeared at the baron's, the
conversation was no longer general; the company divided into small
parties; whispered into each other's ears; and I remained alone, without
knowing to whom to address myself. I endured for a long time this
mortifying neglect; and, perceiving that Madam d'Holbach, who was mild
and amiable, still received me well, I bore with the vulgarity of her
husband as long as it was possible. But he one day attacked me without
reason or pretence, and with such brutality, in presence of Diderot, who
said not a word, and Margency, who since that time has often told me how
much he admired the moderation and mildness of my answers, that, at
length driven from his house, by this unwort