I might have taken the interested side of the question, and, instead of subjecting my pen to copying, entirely devoted it to works which, from the elevation to which I had soared, and at which I found myself capable of continuing, might have enabled me to live in the midst of abundance, nay, even of opulence, had I been the least disposed to join the manoeuvres of an author to the care of publishing a good book.  But I felt that writing for bread would soon have extinguished my genius, and destroyed my talents, which were less in my pen than in my heart, and solely proceeded from an elevated and noble manner of thinking, by which alone they could be cherished and preserved.  Nothing vigorous or great can come from a pen totally venal.  Necessity, nay, even avarice, perhaps, would have made me write rather rapidly than well.  If the desire of success had not led me into cabals, it might have made me endeavor to publish fewer true and useful works than those which might be pleasing to the multitude; and instead of a distinguished author, which I might possibly become, I should have been nothing more than a scribbler.  No:  I have always felt that the profession of letters was illustrious in proportion as it was less a trade.  It is too difficult to think nobly when we think for a livelihood.  To be able to dare even to speak great truths, an author must be independent of success.  I gave my books to the public with a certainty of having written for the general good of mankind, without giving myself the least concern about what was to follow.  If the work was thrown aside, so much the worse for such as did not choose to profit by it.  Their approbation was not necessary to enable me to live, my profession was sufficient to maintain me had not my works had a sale, for which reason alone they all sold.

It was on the ninth of August, 1756, that I left cities, never to reside in them again:  for I do not call a residence the few days I afterwards remained in Paris, London, or other cities, always on the wing, or contrary to my inclinations.  Madam d’Epinay came and took us all three in her coach; her farmer carted away my little baggage, and I was put into possession the same day.  I found my little retreat simply furnished, but neatly, and with some taste.  The hand which had lent its aid in this furnishing rendered it inestimable in my eyes, and I thought it charming to be the guest of my female friend in a house I had made choice of, and which she had caused to be built purposely for me.

Although the weather was cold, and the ground lightly covered with snow, the earth began to vegetate:  violets and primroses already made their appearance, the trees began to bud, and the evening of my arrival was distinguished by the song of the nightingale, which was heard almost under my window, in a wood adjoining the house.  After a light sleep, forgetting when I awoke my change of abode, I still thought myself in the Rue Grenelle, when suddenly this warbling made