suits told us the
whole affair, and I acquainted them with the cause of it, which
altogether furnished us with a hearty laugh. However, I resolved for the
future to make my observations without light, and consult my planisphere
in the house. Those who have read Venetian magic, in the 'Letters from
the Mountain', may find that I long since had the reputation of being a
conjurer.

Such was the life I led at Charmettes when I had no rural employments,
for they ever had the preference, and in those that did not exceed my
strength, I worked like a peasant; but my extreme weakness left me little
except the will; besides, as I have before observed, I wished to do two
things at once, and therefore did neither well. I obstinately persisted
in forcing my memory to retain a great deal by heart, and for that
purpose, I always carried some book with me, which, while at work,
I studied with inconceivable labor. I was continually repeating
something, and am really amazed that the fatigue of these vain and
continual efforts did not render me entirely stupid. I must have learned
and relearned the Eclogues of Virgil twenty times over, though at this
time I cannot recollect a single line of them. I have lost or spoiled a
great number of books by a custom I had of carrying them with me into the
dove-house, the garden, orchard or vineyard, when, being busy about
something else, I laid my book at the foot of a tree, on the hedge, or
the first place that came to hand, and frequently left them there,
finding them a fortnight after, perhaps, rotted to pieces, or eaten by
the ants or snails; and this ardor for learning became so far a madness
that it rendered me almost stupid, and I was perpetually muttering some
passage or other to myself.

The writings of Port-Royal, and those of the Oratory, being what I most
read, had made me half a Jansenist, and, notwithstanding all my
confidence, their harsh theology sometimes alarmed me. A dread of hell,
which till then I had never much apprehended, by little and little
disturbed my security, and had not Madam de Warrens tranquillized my
soul, would at length have been too much for me. My confessor, who was
hers likewise, contributed all in his power to keep up my hopes. This
was a Jesuit, named Father Hemet; a good and wise old man, whose memory
I shall ever hold in veneration. Though a Jesuit, he had the simplicity
of a child, and his manners, less relaxed than gentle, were precisely
what w