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Madame de Warens's bed remains, with the narrow couch of Jean-Jacques as well, his little warped and cracked yellow spinet, and a battered, turnip-shaped silver timepiece, engraved with its master's name its primitive tick as extinct as his passionate heart-beats.
At last, disgusted with the appearance of a new rival in Madame de Warens's changeable household, Rousseau left that lady and drifted off to Lyons; then, after once trying the experiment of returning to his mistress and finding it a failure, to Paris. For more than eight years after his final separation from Madame de Warens, Rousseau did nothing to make any one suppose him to be a man of genius.
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