Three times, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, to his great anxiety, found himself outside the barred gates of Geneva, a city without suburbs. Of one instance, he wrote, “About half a league from the city, I hear the retreat sounding; I hurry up; I hear the drum being beaten, so I run at full speed: I get there all out of breath, and perspiring; my heart is beating; from far away, I see the soldiers from their lookouts; I run, I scream with a choked voice. It was too late.”
