I remained at Lyons seven or eight days to wait for some little commissions with which Madam de Warrens had charged Mademoiselle du Chatelet, who during this interval I visited more assiduously than before, having the pleasure of talking with her of her friend, and being no longer disturbed by the cruel remembrance of my situation, or painful endeavors to conceal it.  Mademoiselle du Chatelet was neither young nor handsome, but did not want for elegance; she was easy and obliging while her understanding gave price to her familiarity.  She had a taste for that kind of moral observation which leads to the knowledge of mankind, and from her originated that study in myself.  She was fond of the works of Le Sage, particularly Gil Blas, which she lent me, and recommended to my perusal.  I read this performance with pleasure, but my judgment was not yet ripe enough to relish that sort of reading.  I liked romances which abounded with high-flown sentiments.

Thus did I pass my time at the grate of Mademoiselle du Chatelet, with as much profit as pleasure.  It is certain that the interesting and sensible conversation of a deserving woman is more proper to form the understanding of a young man than all the pedantic philosophy of books.  I got acquainted at the Chasattes with some other boarders and their friends, and among the rest, with a young person of fourteen, called Mademoiselle Serre, whom I did not much notice at that time, though I was in love with her eight or nine years afterwards, and with great reason, for she was a most charming girl.

I was fully occupied with the idea of seeing Madam de Warrens, and this gave some respite to my chimeras, for finding happiness in real objects I was the less inclined to seek it in nonentities.  I had not only found her, but also by her means, and near her, an agreeable situation, having sent me word that she had procured one that would suit me, and by which I should not be obliged to quit her.  I exhausted all my conjectures in guessing what this occupation could be, but I must have possessed the art of divination to have hit it on the right.  I had money sufficient to make my journey agreeable:  Mademoiselle du Chatelet persuaded me to hire a horse, but this I could not consent to, and I was certainly right, for by so doing I should have lost the pleasure of the last pedestrian expedition I ever made; for I cannot give that name to those excursions I have frequently taken about my own neighborhood, while I lived at Motiers.

It is very singular that my imagination never rises so high as when my situation is least agreeable or cheerful.  When everything smiles around me, I am least amused; my heart cannot confine itself to realities, cannot embellish, but must create.  Real objects strike me as they really are, my imagination can only decorate ideal ones.  If I would paint the spring, it must be in winter; if describe a beautiful landscape, it must be while surrounded with walls;