When we were alone with Therese, she lost no time in opening
the conversation.
"Madam," cried she, "I trust you will have the goodness to excuse
M. Rousseau; he is very unwell; it is really extremely vexatious."
I replied that M. Rousseau had made his own excuses. Just then
Therese, wishing to give herself the appearance of great utility,
cried out,
"Am I wanted there, M. Rousseau?"
"No, no, no," replied Jean Jacques, in a faint voice, which died
away as if at a distance.
He soon after re-entered the room.
"Madam," said he, "have the kindness to place your music in other
hands to copy; I am truly concerned that I cannot execute your
wishes, but I feel too ill to set about it directly."
I replied, that I was in no hurry; that I should be in Paris some
time yet, and that he might copy it at his leisure. It was then
settled that it should be ready within a week from that time;
upon which I rose, and ceremoniously saluting Therese, was
conducted to the door by M. Rousseau, whose politeness led him
to escort me thither, holding his cap in his hand. I retired,
filled with admiration, respect, and pity.
When next I saw the duc d'Aiguillon, I could not refrain from
relating to him all that had happened. My recital inspired him
with the most lively curiosity to see Rousseau, whom he had
never met in society. It was then agreed, that when I went to
fetch my music he should accompany me, disguised in a similar
manner to myself, and that I should pass him off as my uncle.
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