mission he had been entrusted with, that of proposing to the impecunious Rousseau the composition of some musical airs. Marie Phlipon, delighted at this opportunity of seeing Rousseau, immediately indited an eloquent epistle, setting forth its object, adding that she would do herself the honour of fetching the answer in person at the stated time. Behold her then sallying forth in company with the faithful Mignonne, in a flutter of trepidation, hurrying through the streets of Paris, and arriving at last in the Rue Platrière, where Rousseau then lived. With the reverence with which one enters a temple, she knocked at the humble door, and thus she afterwards described her sensations to Sophie:—
It was opened by a woman of at least fifty, in a round cap, a clean and simple morning gown and a large apron. She looked severe and even a little hard.
"Madame, may I ask, does not M. Rousseau live here?"
"Certainly, Mademoiselle."
"Could I see him?"
"What is it you want of him?"
"I came for an answer to a letter which I wrote him a few days ago."
"Mademoiselle, he admits no one; but you can tell the people who have dictated your letter—for, of course, you never wrote such a letter as that"
"Excuse me," I interrupted.
"The handwriting alone shows it to be by a man."
"Would you like to see me write?" I asked, laughing.
She shook her head, adding: "All that I am empowered to tell you is that my husband has absolutely given up doing things of that sort; he would wish nothing better than to be of service, but he is of an age to take some rest."
"I know it, but I would have felt flattered to have had my answer from his own lips; and I will, at least, seize this occasion to express my veneration for the man whom I esteem the most in all the world. Pray accept it, Madame."
She thanked me by keeping her hand on the lock as I went downstairs.
