igion with contempt; who corrupts manners, and who says that when
he comes to the last moment of his life, he will have to do like others,
will confess, and will receive what we call our God, but it will only be
for the sake of his family."[83]

All these things had prepared an unfriendly fate for Diderot when his
time at last came, as it came to most of his friends. For a month he was
cut off from the outer world. His only company was the _Paradise Lost_,
which he happened to have in his pocket at the moment of his arrest. He
compounded an ink for himself, by scraping the slate at the side of his
window, grinding it very fine, and mixing with wine in a broken glass. A
toothpick, found by happy accident in the pocket of his waistcoat,
served him for pen, and the fly-leaves and margins of the Milton made a
repository for his thoughts. With a simple but very characteristic
interest in others who might be as unfortunate as himself, he wrote upon
the walls of his prison his short recipe for writing materials.[84]
Diderot might easily have been buried here for months or even years.
But, as it happened, the governor of Vincennes was a kinsman of
Voltaire's divine Emily, the Marquise du Chatelet. When Voltaire, who
was then at Luneville, heard of Diderot's ill-fortune, he proclaimed as
usual his detestation of a land where bigots can shut up philosophers
under lock and key, and as usual he at once set to work to lessen the
wrong. Madame du Chatelet was made to write to the governor, praying him
to soften the imprisonment of Socrates-Diderot as much as he could.[85]
It was the last of her good deeds, for she died in circumstances of
grotesque tragedy in the following month (Sept. 1749), and her husband,
her son, Voltaire, and Saint Lambert alternately consoled and reproached
one another over her grave. Diderot meanwhile had the benefit of her
intervention. He was transferred from the dungeon to the chateau, was
allowed to wander about the park on his parole, and to receive visits
from his friends. One of the most impulsive of these friends was Jean
Jacques. Their first meeting after Diderot's imprisonment has been,
described by Rousseau himself, in terms at which the phlegmatic will
smile--not wisely, for the manner of expressing emotion, like all else,
is relative. "After three or four centuries of impatience, I flew into
the arms of my friend. O indescribable moment! He, was not alone;
D'Alembert and the treasurer of the Saint