Voltaire was angry with Rousseau, whom he accused of having betrayed the cause of philosophy; he was, as usual, hurried away by the passion of the moment, when he wrote, speaking of the exile, "I give you my word that if this blackguard (_polisson_) of a Jean Jacques should dream of coming (to Geneva), he would run great risk of mounting a ladder which would not be that of Fortune." At the very same time Rousseau was saying, "What have I done to bring upon myself the persecution of M.de Voltaire?
And what worse have I to fear from him?
Would M.de Buffon have me soften this tiger thirsting for my blood?
He knows very well that nothing ever appeases or softens the fury of tigers; if I were to crawl upon the ground before Voltaire, he would triumph thereat, no doubt, but he would rend me none the less.

Basenesses would dishonor me, but would not save me.

Sir, I can suffer, I hope to learn how to die, and he who knows how to do that has never need to be a dastard." Rousseau was high-flown and tragic; Voltaire was cruel in his contemptuous levity; but the contrast between the two philosophers was even greater in the depths of them than on.

the surface.

Rousseau took his own words seriously, even when he was mad, and his conduct was sure to belie them before long.