Calumnies in print were still industriously circulated, and theirbenign authors reproached the different powers with treating me toomildly.For my part, I let them say and write what they pleased,without giving myself the least concern about the matter.I was toldthere was a censure from the Sorbonne, but this I could not believe.
What could the Sorbonne have to do in the matter? Did the doctors wishto know to a certainty that I was not a Catholic? Everybody alreadyknew I was not one.Were they desirous of proving I was not a goodCalvinist? Of what consequence was this to them? It was taking uponthemselves a singular care, and becoming the substitutes of ourministers.Before I saw this publication I thought it wasdistributed in the name of the Sorbonne, by way of mockery: and when Ihad read it I was convinced this was the case.But when at lengththere was not a doubt of its authenticity, all I could bring myself tobelieve was, that the learned doctors would have been better placed ina madhouse than they were in the college.
I was more affected by another publication, because it came from aman for whom I always had an esteem, and whose constancy I admired,though I pitied his blindness.I mean the mandatory letter againstme by the archbishop of Paris.I thought to return an answer to it wasa duty I owed myself.This I felt I could do without derogating frommy dignity; the case was something similar to that of the King ofPoland.I have always detested brutal disputes, after the manner ofVoltaire.I never combat but with dignity, and before I deign todefend myself I must be certain that he by whom I am attacked will notdishonor my retort.I had no doubt but this letter was fabricated bythe Jesuits, and although they were at that time in distress, Idiscovered in it their old principle of crushing the wretched.I wastherefore at liberty to follow my ancient maxim, by honoring thetitulary author, and refuting the work, which I think I didcompletely.
I found my residence at Motiers very agreeable, and nothing waswanting to determine me to end my days there, but a certainty of themeans of subsistence.Living is dear in that neighborhood, and allmy old projects had been overturned by the dissolution of my householdarrangements at Montmorency, the establishment of others, the saleor squandering of my furniture, and the expenses incurred since mydeparture.The little capital which remained to me daily diminished.
Two or three years were sufficient to consume the remainder without myhaving the means of renewing it, except by again engaging inliterary pursuits: a pernicious profession which I had alreadyabandoned.Persuaded that everything which concerned me wouldchange, and that the public, recovered from its frenzy, would makemy persecutors blush, all my endeavors tended to prolong myresources until this happy revolution should take place, after which Ishould more at my ease choose a resource from amongst those whichmight offer themselves.To this effect I took up my Dictionary ofMusic, which ten years' labor had so far advanced as to leavenothing wanting to it but the last corrections.My books, which Ihad lately received, enabled me to finish this work; my papers sent meby the same conveyance, furnished me with the means of beginning mymemoirs to which I was determined to give my whole attention.Ibegan by transcribing the letters into a book, by which my memorymight be guided in the order of facts and time.I had already selectedthose I intended to keep for this purpose, and for ten years theseries was not interrupted.However, in preparing them for copying Ifound an interruption at which I was surprised.This was for almostsix months, from October, 1756, to March following.I recollectedhaving put into my selection a number of letters from Diderot, DeLeyre, Madam d'Epinay, Madam de Chenonceaux, etc., which filled up thevoid and were missing.What was become of them? Had any persons laidtheir hands upon my papers whilst they remained in the Hotel deLuxembourg? This was not conceivable, and I had seen M.deLuxembourg take the key of the chamber in which I had depositedthem.Many letters from different ladies, and all those fromDiderot, were without date, on which account I had been under thenecessity of dating them from memory before they could be put inorder, and thinking I might have committed errors, I again looked themover for the purpose of seeing whether or not I could find those whichought to fill up the void.This experiment did not succeed.Iperceived the vacancy to be real, and that the letters had certainlybeen taken away.By whom and for what purpose? This was what I couldnot comprehend.These letters, written prior to my great quarrels, andat the time of my first enthusiasm in the composition of Heloise,could not be interesting to any person.They containing nothing morethan cavilings by Diderot, jeerings from De Leyre, assurances offriendship from M.de Chenonceaux, and even Madam d'Epinay, withwhom I was then upon the best of terms.To whom were these lettersof consequence? To what use were they to be put? It was not untilseven years afterwards that I suspected the nature of the theft.Thedeficiency being no longer doubtful, I looked over my rough draftsto see whether or not it was the only one.I found several, which onaccount of the badness of my memory, made me suppose others in themultitude of my papers.Those I remarked were that of the MoraleSensitive, and the extract of the adventures of Lord Edward.The last,I confess, made me suspect Madam de Luxembourg.
