eyes wide
open, and his hands clasped.

Rousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his name spoken, turned toward
him:

"You see," said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his later
misfortunes had produced in him, "Jean Jacques cannot even hide himself:
he is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, and to all
he is a public thing, at which they point the finger. It would signify
less if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, as
soon as a man has had the misfortune to make himself a name, he becomes
public property. Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivial
actions, and insults his feelings; he becomes like those walls, which
every passer-by may deface with some abusive writing. Perhaps you will
say that I have myself encouraged this curiosity by publishing my
Confessions. But the world forced me to it. They looked into my house
through the blinds, and they slandered me; I have opened the doors and
windows, so that they should at least know me such as I am. Adieu, sir.
Whenever you wish to know the worth of fame, remember that you have seen
Rousseau."

Nine o'clock.--Ah! now I understand my father's story! It contains the
answer to one of the questions I asked myself a week ago. Yes, I now feel
that fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought; and that, when they
dazzle the soul, both are oftenest, as Madame de Stael says, but 'un
deuil eclatant de bonheur!

'Tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.

[Henry VIII., Act II., Scene 3.]

CHAPTER VIII

MISANTHROPY AND REPENTANCE

August 3d, Nine O'clock P.M.

There are days when everything appears gloomy to us; the world, like the
sky, is covered by a dark fog. Nothing seems in its place; we see only
misery, improvidence, and cruelty; the world seems without God, and given
up to all the evils of chance.

Yesterday I was in this unhappy humor. After a long walk in the
faubourgs, I returned home, sad and dispirited.

Everything I had seen seemed to accuse the civilization of which we are
so proud! I had wandered into a little by-street, with which I was not
acquainted, and I found myself suddenly in the middle of those dreadful
abodes where the poor are born, to languish and die. I looked at those
decaying walls, which time has covered with a foul leprosy;