The latter flew into a rage; he wrote to Baron d'Holbach: "My dear Baron, Rousseau is a scoundrel." Rousseau was by this time mad.
He returned to France.

The Prince of Conti, faithful to his philosophical affections, quartered him at the castle of Trye, near Gisors.

Thence he returned to Paris, still persecuted, he said, by invisible enemies.

Retiring, finally, to the pavilion of Ermenonville, which had been offered to him by M.de Girardin, he died there at the age of sixty-six, sinking even more beneath imaginary woes than under the real sorrows and bitter deceptions of his life.

The disproportion between his intellect and his character, between the boundless pride and the impassioned weakness of his spirit, had little by little estranged his friends and worn out the admiration of his contemporaries.