Having passed four or five days very agreeably at Bellay, we departed,
and continuing our journey without meeting with any accidents, except
those I have just spoken of, arrived at Lyons, and were lodged at Notre
Dame de Pitie. While we waited for the arrival of the before-mentioned
case (which by the assistance of another lie, and the care of our good
patron, M. Reydelet, we had embarked on the Rhone) M. le Maitre went to
visit his acquaintance, and among others Father Cato, a Cordelier, who
will be spoken of hereafter, and the Abbe Dortan, Count of Lyons, both of
whom received him well, but afterwards betrayed him, as will be seen
presently; indeed, his good fortune terminated with M. Reydelet.

Two days after our arrival at Lyons, as we passed a little street not far
from our inn, Le Maitre was attacked by one of his fits; but it was now
so violent as to give me the utmost alarm. I screamed with terror,
called for help, and naming our inn, entreated some one to bear him to
it, then (while the people were assembled, and busy round a man that had
fallen senseless in the street) he was abandoned by the only friend on
whom he could have any reasonable dependence; I seized the instant when
no one heeded me, turned the corner of the street and disappeared.
Thanks to Heaven, I have made my third painful confession; if many such
remained, I should certainly abandon the work I have undertaken.

Of all the incidents I have yet related, a few traces are remaining in
the places where I have lived; but what I have to relate in the following
book is almost entirely unknown; these are the greatest extravagancies of
my life, and it is happy they had not worse conclusions. My head, (if I
may use the simile) screwed up to the pitch of an instrument it did not
naturally accord with, had lost its diapason; in time it returned to it
again, when I discontinued my follies, or at least gave in to those more