id in my solitude without tempting me to print anything more.
I know not for what reason they had long tormented me to write the
memoirs of my life. Although these were not until that time interesting
as to the facts, I felt they might become so by the candor with which I
was capable of giving them, and I determined to make of these the only
work of the kind, by an unexampled veracity, that, for once at least, the
world might see a man such as he internally was. I had always laughed at
the false ingenuousness of Montaigne, who, feigning to confess his
faults, takes great care not to give himself any, except such as are
amiable; whilst I, who have ever thought, and still think myself,
considering everything, the best of men, felt there is no human being,
however pure he maybe, who does not internally conceal some odious vice.
I knew I was described to the public very different from what I really
was, and so opposite, that notwithstanding my faults, all of which I was
determined to relate, I could not but be a gainer by showing myself in my
proper colors. This, besides, not being to be done without setting forth
others also in theirs and the work for the same reason not being of a
nature to appear during my lifetime, and that of several other persons,
I was the more encouraged to make my confession, at which I should never
have to blush before any person. I therefore resolved to dedicate my
leisure to the execution of this undertaking, and immediately began to
collect such letters and papers as might guide or assist my memory,
greatly regretting the loss of all I had burned, mislaid and destroyed.

The project of absolute retirement, one of the most reasonable I had ever
formed, was strongly impressed upon my mind, and for the execution of it
I was already taking measures, when Heaven, which prepared me a different
destiny, plunged me into a another vortex.

Montmorency, the ancient and fine patrimony of the illustrious family of
that name, was taken from it by confiscation. It passed by the sister of
Duke Henry, to the house of Conde, which has changed the name of
Montmorency to that of Enguien, and the duchy has no other castle than an
old tower, where the archives are kept, and to which the vassals come to
do homage. But at Montmorency, or Enguien, there is a private house,
built by Crosat, called 'le pauvre', which having the magnificence of the
most superb chateaux, deserves and bears the name of a castle. The