* This is an instance of the treachery of my memory.A long time after I had written what I have stated above, I learned, in conversing with my wife, that it was not M.d'Holbach, but M.de Chenonceaux, then one of the administrators of the Hotel Dieu, who procured this place for her father.I had so totally forgotten the circumstance, and the idea of M.d'Holbach's having done it was so strong in my mind that I would have sworn it had been him.
Much about the same time I received a visit I little expected, although it was from a very old acquaintance.My friend Venture, accompanied by another man, came upon me one morning by surprise.What a change did I discover in his person! Instead of his former gracefulness, he appeared sottish and vulgar, which made me extremely reserved with him.My eyes deceived me, or either debauchery had stupefied his mind, or all his first splendor was the effect of his youth which was past.I saw him almost with indifference, and we parted rather coolly.But when he was gone, the remembrance of our former connection so strongly called to my recollection that of my younger days, so charmingly, so prudently dedicated to that angelic woman (Madam de Warrens) who was not much less changed than himself;the little anecdotes of that happy time, the romantic day at Toune passed with so much innocence and enjoyment between those two charming girls, from whom a kiss of the hand was the only favor, and which, notwithstanding its being so trifling, had left me such lively, affecting and lasting regrets; and the ravishing delirium of a young heart, which I had just felt in all its force, and of which Ithought the season forever past for me.The tender remembrance of these delightful circumstances made me shed tears over my faded youth and its transports forever lost to me.Ah! how many tears should I have shed over their tardy and fatal return had I foreseen the evils I had yet to suffer from them.
Before I left Paris, I enjoyed during the winter which preceded my retreat, a pleasure after my own heart, and of which I tasted in all its purity.Palissot, academician of Nancy, known by a few dramatic compositions, had just had one of them performed at Luneville before the King of Poland.He perhaps thought to make his court by representing in his piece a man who dared to enter into a literary dispute with the king.Stanislaus, who was generous, and did not like satire, was filled with indignation at the author's daring to be personal in his presence.The Comte de Tressan, by order of the prince, wrote to M.D'Alembert, as well as to myself, to inform me that it was the intention of his majesty to have Palissot expelled his academy.My answer was a strong solicitation in favor of Palissot, begging M.de Tressan to intercede with the king in his behalf.His pardon was granted, and M.de Tressan, when he communicated to me the information in the name of the monarch, added that the whole of what had passed should be inserted in the register of the academy.Ireplied that this was less granting a pardon than perpetuating a punishment.At length, after repeated solicitations, I obtained a promise, that nothing relative to the affair should be inserted in the register, and that no public trace should remain of it.The promise was accompanied, as well on the part of the king as on that of M.de Tressan, with assurance of esteem and respect, with which I was extremely flattered; and I felt on this occasion that the esteem of men who are themselves worthy of it, produced in the mind a sentiment infinitely more noble and pleasing than that of vanity.Ihave transcribed into my collection the letters of M.de Tressan, with my answers to them; and the original of the former will be found amongst my other papers.
I am perfectly aware that if ever these memoirs become public, Ihere perpetuate the remembrance of a fact which I would wish to efface every trace; but I transmit many others as much against my inclination.The grand object of my undertaking, constantly before my eyes, and the indispensable duty of fulfilling it to its utmost extent, will not permit me to be turned aside by trifling considerations which would lead me from my purpose.In my strange and unparalleled situation I owe too much to truth to be further than this indebted to any person whatever.They who wish to know me well must be acquainted with me in every point of view, in every relative situation, both good and bad.My confessions are necessarily connected with those of many other people: I write both with the same frankness in everything that relates to that which has befallen me; and am not obliged to spare any person more than myself, although it is my wish to do it.I am determined always to be just and true, to say of others all the good I can, never speaking of evil except when it relates to my own conduct, and there is a necessity for my so doing.Who, in the situation in which the world has placed me, has a right to require more at my hands? My confessions are not intended to appear during my lifetime, nor that of those they may disagreeably affect.Were I master of my own destiny, and that of the book I am now writing, it should never be made public until after my death and theirs.But the efforts which the dread of truth obliges my powerful enemies to make to destroy every trace of it, render it necessary for me to do everything, which the strictest right, and the most severe justice, will permit, to preserve what I have written.Were the remembrance of me to be lost at my dissolution, rather than expose any person alive, I would without a murmur suffer an unjust and momentary reproach.But since my name is to live, it is my duty to endeavor to transmit with it to posterity the remembrance of the unfortunate man by whom it was borne, such as he really was, and not such as his unjust enemies incessantly endeavored to describe him.
End of Book VIII
