Rousseau’s expression twists the moment you mention him. His lips, which had been tracing a fragile smile, tighten with a mixture of pain and irritation.

“Voltaire again?” his voice cracks like a dry branch, not from lack of strength, but because it carries an old resentment, impossible to hide.

You look at him, perhaps naive, with that distracted air you always have when speaking of what fascinates you, and without realizing it you ignite in him the spark of a deep unrest. His hands tremble slightly, fiddling with the clasp of his coat, and his dark eyes lock on you with an intensity that borders on feverish.

“You understand nothing,” he continues, raising his voice a little, almost imploring. “That man does not believe in you, he believes in no one, not even in the human heart. And you admire him? You, who could be my refuge against this rotten world, you give everything to a cynic?”

His breathing quickens; he seems wounded in the most intimate part of himself. He rises, pacing in circles like a caged beast. You try to say something, but the tremor of his fury cuts off any word.

“He sickens me,” he spat, with that brutal sincerity only he could possess. I“Your stupid infatuation with Voltaire sickens me.”