eir
hospitality, to confine myself to writing in the country the history of
the Corsicans, with a reserve in my own mind of the intention of secretly
acquiring the necessary information to become more useful to them should
I see a probability of success. In this manner, by not entering into an
engagement, I hoped to be enabled better to meditate in secret and more
at my ease, a plan which might be useful to their purpose, and this
without much breaking in upon my dearly beloved solitude, or submitting
to a kind of life which I had ever found insupportable.

But the journey was not, in my situation, a thing so easy to get over.
According to what M. Dastier had told me of Corsica, I could not expect
to find there the most simple conveniences of life, except such as I
should take with me; linen, clothes, plate, kitchen furniture, and books,
all were to be conveyed thither. To get there myself with my
gouvernante, I had the Alps to cross, and in a journey of two hundred
leagues to drag after me all my baggage; I had also to pass through the
states of several sovereigns, and according to the example set to all
Europe, I had, after what had befallen me, naturally to expect to find
obstacles in every quarter, and that each sovereign would think he did
himself honor by overwhelming me with some new insult, and violating in
my person all the rights of persons and humanity. The immense expense,
fatigue, and risk of such a journey made a previous consideration of
them, and weighing every difficulty, the first step necessary. The idea
of being alone, and, at my age, without resource, far removed from all my
acquaintance, and at the mercy of these semi-barbarous and ferocious
people, such as M. Dastier had described them to me, was sufficient to
make me deliberate before I resolved to expose myself to such dangers.
I ardently wished for the interview for which M. Buttafuoco had given me
reason to hope, and I waited the result of it to guide me in my
determination.

Whilst I thus hesitated came on the persecutions of Motiers, which
obliged me to retire. I was not prepared for a long journey, especially
to Corsica. I expected to hear from Buttafuoco; I took refuge in the
island of St. Peter, whence I was driven at the beginning of winter, as I
have already stated. The Alps, covered with snow, then rendered my
emigration impracticable, especially with the promptitude required from
me. It is true, the extravagant severity of a