that I fixed on this spot, in the novel I afterwards wrote, for the
residence of my hero and heroines. I would say to any one who has taste
and feeling, go to Vevay, visit the surrounding country, examine the
prospects, go on the lake and then say, whether nature has not designed
this country for a Julia, a Clara, and a St. Preux; but do not seek them
there. I now return to my story.

Giving myself out for a Catholic, I followed without mystery or scruple
the religion I had embraced. On a Sunday, if the weather was fine, I
went to hear mass at Assans, a place two leagues distant from Lausanne,
and generally in company with other Catholics, particularly a Parisian
embroiderer, whose name I have forgotten. Not such a Parisian as myself,
but a real native of Paris, an arch-Parisian from his maker, yet honest
as a peasant. He loved his country so well, that he would not doubt my
being his countryman, for fear he should not have so much occasion to
speak of it. The lieutenant-governor, M. de Crouzas, had a gardener, who
was likewise from Paris, but not so complaisant; he thought the glory of
his country concerned, when any one claimed that honor who was not really
entitled to it; he put questions to me, therefore, with an air and tone,
as if certain to detect me in a falsehood, and once, smiling malignantly,
asked what was remarkable in the 'Marcheneuf'? It may be supposed I
asked the question; but I have since passed twenty years at Paris, and
certainly know that city, yet was the same question repeated at this day,
I should be equally embarrassed to answer it, and from this embarrassment
it might be concluded I had never been there: thus, even when we meet
with truths, we are subject to build our opinions on circumstances, which
may easily deceive us.

I formed no ideas, while at Lausanne, that were worth recollecting, nor
can I say exactly how long I remained there; I only know that not finding