He found amongst it an air from "
," which I had purposely placed there; he
half turned towards me and looking steadfastly at me, as if he
would force the truth from my lips.
"Madam," said he, "do you know the author of this little composition?"
"Yes," replied I, with an air of as great simplicity as I could
assume, "it is written by a person of the same name as yourself,
who writes books and composes operas. Is he any relation to you?"
My answer and question disarmed the suspicions of Jean Jacques,
who was about to reply, but stopped himself, as if afraid of
uttering a falsehood, and contented himself with smiling and
casting down his eyes. Taking courage from his silence, I ventured
to add,--"The M. de Rousseau who composed this pretty air has
written much beautiful music and many very clever works. Should I
ever know the happiness of becoming a mother I shall owe to him
the proper care and education of my child." Rousseau made no
reply, but he turned his eyes towards me, and at this moment the
expression of his countenance was perfectly celestial, and I could
readily imagine how easily he might have inspired a warmer sentiment
than that of admiration.
Whilst we were conversing in this manner, a female, between the
age of forty and fifty, entered the room. She saluted me with
great affectation of politeness, and then, without speaking to
Rousseau, went and seated herself familiarly upon a chair on the
other side of the table: this was Therese, a sort of factotum,
who served the master of these apartments both as servant and
mistress.
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