Rousseau’s Toilet.
WHEN M. DE COIGNY was gone, Rousseau, whose ideas this visit had entirely changed, threw himself into a little armchair, with a deep sigh, and said in a sleepy tone:
“Oh! how tiresome this is! How these people weary me with their persecutions!”
Therese caught the last words as she entered, and placing herself before Rousseau:
“How proud we are!” said she.
“I?” asked Rousseau, surprised.
“Yes; you are a vain fellow — a hypocrite!”
“I?”
“Yes, you! you are enchanted to go to court, and you conceal your joy under this false indifference.”
“Oh! good heavens!” replied Rousseau, shrugging his shoulders, and humiliated at being so truly described.
“Do you not wish to make me believe that it is not a great honor for you to perform for the king the airs you thump here upon your spinet, like a good-for-nothing as you are?”
Rousseau looked angrily at his wife.
“You are a simpleton,” said he; “it is no honor for a man such as I am to appear before a king. To what does this man owe that he is on the throne? To a caprice of nature, which gave him a queen as his mother; but I am worthy of being called before the king to minister to his recreation. It is to my works I owe it, and to the fame acquired by my works.”
Therese was not a woman to be so easily conquered.
“I wish M. de Sartines heard you talking in this style; he would give you a lodging in Bicetre, or a cell at Charenton.”
“Because this M. de Sartines is a tyrant in the pay of another tyrant, and because man is defenseless against tyrants with the aid of his genius alone. But if M. de Sartines were to persecute me—”
“Well, what then?” asked Therese.
“Ah! yes,” sighed Rousseau; “yes, I know that would delight my enemies.”
“Why have you enemies?” continued Therese. “Because you are ill-natured, and because you have attacked every one. Ah, M. de Voltaire knows how to make friends, he does!”
“True,” said Rousseau, with an angelic smile.
“But, dame! M. de Voltaire is a gentleman — he is the intimate friend of the king of Prussia — he has horses, he is rich, and lives in his chateau at Ferney. And all that he owes to his merit. Therefore, when he goes to court, he does not act the disdainful man — he is quite at home.”
“And do you think,” said Rousseau, “that I shall not be at home there? Think you that I do not know where all the money that is spent there comes from, or that I am duped by the respect which is paid to the master? Oh! my good woman, who judgest everything falsely, remember, if I act the disdainful, it is because I really feel contempt — remember that if I despise the pomp of these courtiers, it is because they have stolen their riches.”
“Stolen!” said Therese, with inexpressible indignation.
“Yes, stolen from you — from me — from every one. All the gold they have upon their fine clothes should be restored to the poor wretches who want bread. That is the reason why I, who know all these things, go so reluctantly to court.”
“I do not say that the people are happy — but the king is always the king.”
“Well, I obey him; what more does he want?”
“Ah! you obey because you are afraid. You must not say in my hearing that you go against your will, or that you are a brave man, for if so, I shall reply that you are a hypocrite, and that you are very glad to go.”
“I do not fear anything,” said Rousseau, superbly.
“Good! Just go and say to the king one quarter of what you have been telling me the last half hour.”
“I shall assuredly do so, if my feelings prompt me.”
“You?”
“Yes. Have I ever recoiled?”
“Bah! You dare not take a bone from a cat when she is gnawing it, for fear she should scratch you! What would you be if surrounded by guards and swordsmen? Look you, I know you as well as if I were your mother. You will just now go and shave yourself afresh, oil your hair, and make yourself beautiful; you will display your leg to the utmost advantage; you will put on your interesting little winking expression, because your eyes are small and round, and if you opened them naturally that would be seen, while, when you wink, you make people believe that they are as large as carriage entrances. You will ask me for your silk stockings, you will put on your chocolate-colored coat with steel buttons and your beautiful new wig; you will order a coach, and my philosopher will go and be adored by the ladies! And to-morrow — ah! — to-morrow, there will be such ecstatic reveries, such interesting languor! You will come back amorous, you will sigh and write verses, and you will dilute your coffee with your tears. Oh! how well I know you!”
“You are wrong, my dear,” Rousseau replied. “I tell you I am reluctantly obliged to go to court. I go because, after all, I four to cause scandal, as every honest citizen should do. Moreover, I am not one of those who refuse to acknowledge the supremacy of one citizen in a republic; but as to making advances, as to brushing my new coat against the gold spangles of these gentlemen of the Oeil-de-Boeuf — no, no — I shall do nothing of the sort, and if you catch me doing so, laugh at me as much as you please.”
“Then you will not dress?” said Therese, sarcastically.
“No.”
“You will not put on your new wig?”
“No.”
“You will not wink with your little eyes?”
“I tell you I shall go like a free man, without affectation and without fear. I shall go to court as if I were going to the theater, and let the actors like me or not, I care not for them.”
“Oh! you will at least trim your beard,” said Therese; “it is half a foot long!”
“I tell you I shall make no change.”
Therese burst into so loud and prolonged a laugh that Rousseau was obliged to take refuge in the next room. But the housekeeper had not finished her persecutions; she had them of all colors and kinds.
She opened the cupboard and took out his best coat, his clean linen, and beautifully polished shoes. She spread all these articles out upon the bed and over the chairs in the apartment; but Rousseau did not seem to pay the least attention.
At last Therese said:
“Come, it is time you should dress. A court toilet is tedious. You will have barely time to reach Versailles at the appointed hour.”
“I have told you, Therese, that I shall do very well as I am. It is the same dress in which I present myself every day among my fellow-citizens. A king is but a citizen like myself.”
“Come, come!” said Therese, trying to tempt him and bring him to her purpose by artful insinuation; “do not pout, Jacques, and don’t be foolish. Here are your clothes. Your razor is ready; I have sent for the barber, in case you have your nervousness to-day.”
“Thank you, my dear,” replied Rousseau; “I shall only just give myself a brush, and take my shoes because I cannot go out in slippers.”
“Is he going to be firm. I wonder?;’ thought Therese.
She tried to coax him, sometimes by coquetry, sometimes by persuasion, and sometimes by the violence of her raillery. But Rousseau knew her, and saw the snare. He felt that the moment he should give way, he would be unmercifully disgraced and ridiculed by his butter-half. He determined, therefore, not to give way, and abstained from looking at the fine clothes, which set off what he termed his natural advantages.
Therese watched him. She had only one resource left; this was the glance which Rousseau never failed to give in the glass before he went out; for the philosopher was neat to an extreme, if there can be an extreme in neatness.
But Rousseau continued to be on his guard, and as he had caught Therese’s anxious look, he turned his back to the looking-glass. The hour arrived; the philosopher had filled Ins head with all the disagreeable remarks he could think of to say to the king.
He repeated some scraps of them to himself while he buckled his shoes, then tucked his hat under his arm, seized his cane, and taking advantage of a moment when Therese could not see him, he pulled down his coat and his waistcoat with both hands, to smooth the creases.
Therese now returned, handed him a handkerchief, which he plunged into his huge pocket, and then accompanied him to the landing-place, saying:
“Come, Jacques, be reasonable; you look quite frightful; you have the air of some false moneyer.”
“Adieu!” said Rousseau.
“You look like a thief, sir,” said Therese; “take care!”
“Take care of fire,” said Rousseau, “and do not touch my papers.”
“You have just the air of a spy, I assure you!” said Therese in despair.
Rousseau made no reply; he descended the steps singing, and favored by the obscurity, he gave his hat a brush with his sleeve, smoothed his shirt-frill with his left hand, and touched up his toilet with a rapid but skillful movement.
Arrived at the foot of the stairs, he boldly confronted the mud of the Rue Platriere, walking upon tiptoe, and reached the Champs-Elysees, where those honest vehicles which some rather affectedly call pataches were stationed, and which, so late as ten years ago, still carried, or rather bundled, from Paris to Versailles, those travelers who were obliged to use economy.