Indeed, we are hardly condoning evil, in suggesting that the whole story from its beginning is marked with exaggeration, and that we who have our own lives to lead shall find little help in criticising at further length the exact heinousness of the ignoble falsehood of a boy who happened to grow up into a man of genius.[34] After an interval of six weeks, which were passed in the garret or cellar of his rough patroness with kind heart and ungentle tongue, Rousseau again found himself a lackey in the house of a Piedmontese person of quality.

This new master, the Count of Gouvon, treated him with a certain unusual considerateness, which may perhaps make us doubt the narrative.

His son condescended to teach the youth Latin, and Rousseau presumed to entertain a passion for one of the daughters of the house, to whom he paid silent homage in the odd shape of attending to her wants at table with special solicitude.

In this situation he had, or at least he supposed that he had, an excellent chance of ultimate advancement.

But advancement here or elsewhere means a measure of stability, and Rousseau's temperament in his youth was the archtype of the mutable.