of my works, consequently of my principles,
and that he loved me because his mind was in unison with mine. It was
natural this idea should seduce me. I have since seen M. Laliand. I
found him very ready to render me many trifling services, and to concern
himself in my little affairs, but I have my doubts of his having, in the
few books he ever read, fallen upon any one of those I have written. I
do not know that he has a library, or that such a thing is of any use to
him; and for the bust he has a bad figure in plaster, by Le Moine, from
which has been engraved a hideous portrait that bears my name, as if it
bore to me some resemblance.

The only Frenchman who seemed to come to see me, on account of my
sentiments, and his taste for my works, was a young officer of the
regiment of Limousin, named Seguier de St. Brisson. He made a figure in
Paris, where he still perhaps distinguishes himself by his pleasing
talents and wit. He came once to Montmorency, the winter which preceded
my catastrophe. I was pleased with his vivacity. He afterwards wrote to
me at Motiers, and whether he wished to flatter me, or that his head was
turned with Emilius, he informed me he was about to quit the service to
live independently, and had begun to learn the trade of a carpenter. He
had an elder brother, a captain in the same regiment, the favorite of the
mother, who, a devotee to excess, and directed by I know not what
hypocrite, did not treat the youngest son well, accusing him of
irreligion, and what was still worse, of the unpardonable crime of being
connected with me. These were the grievances, on account of which he was
determined to break with his mother, and adopt the manner of life of
which I have just spoken, all to play the part of the young Emilius.
Alarmed at his petulance, I immediately wrote to him, endeavoring to make
him change his resolution, and my exhortations were as strong as I could
make them. They had their effect. He returned to his duty, to his
mother, and took back the resignation he had given the colonel, who had
been prudent enough to make no use of it, that the young man might have
time to reflect upon what he had done. St. Brisson, cured of these
follies, was guilty of another less alarming, but, to me, not less
disagreeable than the rest: he became an author. He successively
published two or three pamphlets which announced a man not devoid of
talents, but I have not to reproach myself with having e