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PARIS - Chapter VI

My Apprenticeship in Paris--Portraits--Oddities--All Sorts of Things


To celebrate the arrival of her son, Silvia gave a splendid supper to
which she had invited all her relatives, and it was a good
opportunity for me to make their acquaintance.  Baletti's father, who
had just recovered from a long illness, was not with us, but we had
his father's sister, who was older than Mario.  She was known, under
her theatrical name of Flaminia, in the literary world by several
translations, but I had a great wish to make her acquaintance less on
that account than in consequence of the story, known throughout
Italy, of the stay that three literary men of great fame had made in
Paris.  Those three literati were the Marquis Maffei, the Abbe Conti,
and Pierre Jacques Martelli, who became enemies, according to public
rumour, owing to the belief entertained by each of them that he
possessed the favours of the actress, and, being men of learning,
they fought with the pen.  Martelli composed a satire against Maffei,
in which he designated him by the anagram of Femia.

I had been announced to Flaminia as a candidate for literary fame,
and she thought she honoured me by addressing me at all, but she was
wrong, for she displeased me greatly by her face, her manners, her
style, even by the sound of her voice.  Without saying it positively,
she made me understand that, being herself an illustrious member of
the republic of letters, she was well aware that she was speaking to
an insect.  She seemed as if she wanted to dictate to everybody
around her, and she very likely thought that she had the right to do
so at the age of sixty, particularly towards a young novice only
twenty-five years old, who had not yet contributed anything to the
literary treasury.  In order to please her, I spoke to her of the
Abbe Conti, and I had occasion to quote two lines of that profound
writer.  Madam corrected me with a patronizing air for my
pronounciation of the word 'scevra', which means divided, saying that
it ought to be pronounced 'sceura', and she added that I ought to be
very glad to have learned so much on the first day of my arrival in
Paris, telling me that it would be an important day in my life.

"Madam, I came here to learn and not to unlearn.  You will kindly
allow me to tell you that the pronunciation of that word 'scevra'
with a v, and not 'sceura' with a u, because it is a contraction of
'sceverra'."

"It remains to be seen which of us is wrong."

"You, madam, according to Ariosto, who makes 'scevra' rhyme with
'persevra', and the rhyme would be false with 'sceura', which is not
an Italian word."

She would have kept up the discussion, but her husband, a man eighty
years of age, told her that she was wrong.  She held her tongue, but
from that time she told everybody that I was an impostor.

Her husband, Louis Riccoboni, better known as Lelio, was the same who
had brought the Italian company to Paris in 1716, and placed it at
the service of the regent: he was a man of great merit.  He had been
very handsome, and justly enjoyed the esteem of the public, in
consequence not only of his talent but also of the purity of his
life.

During supper my principal occupation was to study Silvia, who then
enjoyed the greatest reputation, and I judged her to be even above
it.  She was then about fifty years old, her figure was elegant, her
air noble, her manners graceful and easy; she was affable, witty,
kind to everybody, simple and unpretending.  Her face was an enigma,
for it inspired everyone with the warmest sympathy, and yet if you
examined it attentively there was not one beautiful feature; she
could not be called handsome, but no one could have thought her ugly. 
Yet she was not one of those women who are neither handsome nor ugly,
for she possessed a certain something which struck one at first sight
and captivated the interest.  Then what was she?

Beautiful, certainly, but owing to charms unknown to all those who,
not being attracted towards her by an irresistible feeling which
compelled them to love her, had not the courage to study her, or the
constancy to obtain a thorough knowledge of her.

Silvia was the adoration of France, and her talent was the real
support of all the comedies which the greatest authors wrote for her,
especially of, the plays of Marivaux, for without her his comedies
would never have gone to posterity.  Never was an actress found who
could replace her, and to find one it would be necessary that she
should unite in herself all the perfections which Silvia possessed
for the difficult profession of the stage: action, voice,
intelligence, wit, countenance, manners, and a deep knowledge of the
human heart.  In Silvia every quality was from nature, and the art
which gave the last touch of perfection to her qualities was never
seen.

To the qualities which I have just mentioned, Silvia added another
which surrounded her with a brilliant halo, and the absence of which
would not have prevented her from being the shining star of the
stage: she led a virtuous life.  She had been anxious to have
friends, but she had dismissed all lovers, refusing to avail herself
of a privilege which she could easily have enjoyed, but which would
have rendered her contemptible in her own estimation.  The
irreproachable conduct obtained for her a reputation of
respectability which, at her age, would have been held as ridiculous
and even insulting by any other woman belonging to the same
profession, and many ladies of the highest rank honoured her with her
friendship more even than with their patronage.  Never did the
capricious audience of a Parisian pit dare to hiss Silvia, not even
in her performance of characters which the public disliked, and it
was the general opinion that she was in every way above her
profession.

Silvia did not think that her good conduct was a merit, for she knew
that she was virtuous only because her self-love compelled her to be
so, and she never exhibited any pride or assumed any superiority
towards her theatrical sisters, although, satisfied to shine by their
talent or their beauty, they cared little about rendering themselves
conspicuous by their virtue.  Silvia loved them all, and they all
loved her; she always was the first to praise, openly and with good
faith, the talent of her rivals; but she lost nothing by it, because,
being their superior in talent and enjoying a spotless reputation,
her rivals could not rise above her.

Nature deprived that charming woman of ten year of life; she became
consumptive at the age of sixty, ten years after I had made her
acquaintance.  The climate of Paris often proves fatal to our Italian
actresses.  Two years before her death I saw her perform the
character of Marianne in the comedy of Marivaux, and in spite of her
age and declining health the illusion was complete.  She died in my
presence, holding her daughter in her arms, and she was giving her
the advice of a tender mother five minutes before she breathed her
last.  She was honourably buried in the church of St. Sauveur,
without the slightest opposition from the venerable priest, who, far
from sharing the anti-christain intolerancy of the clergy in general,
said that her profession as an actress had not hindered her from
being a good Christian, and that the earth was the common mother of
all human beings, as Jesus Christ had been the Saviour of all
mankind.

You will forgive me, dear reader, if I have made you attend the
funeral of Silvia ten years before her death; believe me I have no
intention of performing a miracle; you may console yourself with the
idea that I shall spare you that unpleasant task when poor Silvia
dies.

Her only daughter, the object of her adoration, was seated next to
her at the supper-table.  She was then only nine years old, and being
entirely taken up by her mother I paid no attention to her; my
interest in her was to come.

After the supper, which was protracted to a late hour, I repaired to
the house of Madame Quinson, my landlady, where I found myself very
comfortable.  When I woke in the morning, the said Madame Quinson
came to my room to tell me that a servant was outside and wished to
offer me his services.  I asked her to send him in, and I saw a man
of very small stature; that did not please me, and I told him so.

"My small stature, your honour, will be a guarantee that I shall
never borrow your clothes to go to some amorous rendezvous."

"Your name?"

"Any name you please."

"What do you mean?  I want the name by which you are known."

"I have none.  Every master I serve calls me according to his fancy,
and I have served more than fifty in my life.  You may call me what
you like."

"But you must have a family name."

"I never had any family.  I had a name, I believe, in my young days,
but I have forgotten it since I have been in service.  My name has
changed with every new master."

"Well! I shall call you Esprit."

"You do me a great honour."

"Here, go and get me change for a Louis."

"I have it, sir."

"I see you are rich."

"At your service, sir."

"Where can I enquire about you?"

"At the agency for servants.  Madame Quinson, besides, can answer
your enquiries.  Everybody in Paris knows me."

"That is enough.  I shall give you thirty sous a day; you must find
your own clothes: you will sleep where you like, and you must be here
at seven o'clock every morning."

Baletti called on me and entreated me to take my meals every day at
his house.  After his visit I told Esprit to take me to the Palais-
Royal, and I left him at the gates.  I felt the greatest curiosity
about that renowned garden, and at first I examined everything.  I
see a rather fine garden, walks lined with big trees, fountains, high
houses all round the garden, a great many men and women walking
about, benches here and there forming shops for the sale of
newspapers, perfumes, tooth-picks, and other trifles.  I see a
quantity of chairs for hire at the rate of one sou, men reading the
newspaper under the shade of the trees, girls and men breakfasting
either alone or in company, waiters who were rapidly going up and
down a narrow staircase hidden under the foliage.

I sit down at a small table: a waiter comes immediately to enquire my
wishes.  I ask for some chocolate made with water; he brings me some,
but very bad, although served in a splendid silver-gilt cup.  I tell
him to give me some coffee, if it is good.

"Excellent, I made it myself yesterday."

"Yesterday!  I do not want it."

"The milk is very good."

"Milk!  I never drink any.  Make me a cup of fresh coffee without
milk."

"Without milk!  Well, sir, we never make coffee but in the afternoon. 
Would you like a good bavaroise, or a decanter of orgeat?"

"Yes, give me the orgeat."

I find that beverage delicious, and make up my mind to have it daily
for my breakfast.  I enquire from the waiter whether there is any
news; he answers that the dauphine has been delivered of a prince. 
An abbe, seated at a table close by, says to him,--

"You are mad, she has given birth to a princess."

A third man comes forward and exclaims,--

"I have just returned from Versailles, and the dauphine has not been
delivered either of a prince or of a princess."

Then, turning towards me, he says that I look like a foreigner, and
when I say that I am an Italian he begins to speak to me of the
court, of the city, of the theatres, and at last he offers to
accompany me everywhere.  I thank him and take my leave.  The abbe
rises at the same time, walks with me, and tells me the names of all
the women we meet in the garden.

A young man comes up to him, they embrace one another, and the abbe
presents him to me as a learned Italian scholar.  I address him in
Italian, and he answers very wittily, but his way of speaking makes
me smile, and I tell him why.  He expressed himself exactly in the
style of Boccacio.  My remark pleases him, but I soon prove to him
that it is not the right way to speak, however perfect may have been
the language of that ancient writer.  In less than a quarter of an
hour we are excellent friends, for we find that our tastes are the
same.

My new friend was a poet as I was; he was an admirer of Italian
literature, while I admired the French.

We exchanged addresses, and promise to see one another very often.

I see a crowd in one corner of the garden, everybody standing still
and looking up.  I enquire from my friend whether there is anything
wonderful going on.

"These persons are watching the meridian; everyone holds his watch in
his hand in order to regulate it exactly at noon."

"Is there not a meridian everywhere?"

"Yes, but the meridian of the Palais-Royal is the most exact."

I laugh heartily.

"Why do you laugh?"

"Because it is impossible for all meridians not to be the same.  That
is true 'badauderie'."

My friend looks at me for a moment, then he laughs likewise, and
supplies me with ample food to ridicule the worthy Parisians.  We
leave the Palais-Royal through the main gate, and I observe another
crowd of people before a shop, on the sign-board of which I read "At
the Sign of the Civet Cat."

"What is the matter here?"

"Now, indeed, you are going to laugh.  All these honest persons are
waiting their turn to get their snuff-boxes filled."

"Is there no other dealer in snuff?"

"It is sold everywhere, but for the last three weeks nobody will use
any snuff but that sold at the 'Civet Cat.'"

"Is it better than anywhere else?"

"Perhaps it is not as good, but since it has been brought into
fashion by the Duchesse de Chartres, nobody will have any other."

"But how did she manage to render it so fashionable?"

"Simply by stopping her carriage two or three times before the shop
to have her snuff-box filled, and by saying aloud to the young girl
who handed back the box that her snuff was the very best in Paris. 
The 'badauds', who never fail to congregate near the carriage of
princes, no matter if they have seen them a hundred times, or if they
know them to be as ugly as monkeys, repeated the words of the duchess
everywhere, and that was enough to send here all the snuff-takers of
the capital in a hurry.  This woman will make a fortune, for she
sells at least one hundred crowns' worth of snuff every day."

"Very likely the duchess has no idea of the good she has done."

"Quite the reverse, for it was a cunning artifice on her part.  The
duchess, feeling interested in the newly-married young woman, and
wishing to serve her in a delicate manner, thought of that expedient
which has met with complete success.  You cannot imagine how kind
Parisians are.  You are now in the only country in the world where
wit can make a fortune by selling either a genuine or a false
article: in the first case, it receives the welcome of intelligent
and talented people, and in the second, fools are always ready to
reward it, for silliness is truly a characteristic of the people
here, and, however wonderful it may appear, silliness is the daughter
of wit.  Therefore it is not a paradox to say that the French would
be wiser if they were less witty.

"The gods worshipped here although no altars are raised for them--are
Novelty and Fashion.  Let a man run, and everybody will run after
him.  The crowd will not stop, unless the man is proved to be mad;
but to prove it is indeed a difficult task, because we have a crowd
of men who, mad from their birth, are still considered wise.

"The snuff of the 'Civet Cat' is but one example of the facility with
which the crowd can be attracted to one particular spot.  The king
was one day hunting, and found himself at the Neuilly Bridge; being
thirsty, he wanted a glass of ratafia.  He stopped at the door of a
drinking-booth, and by the most lucky chance the poor keeper of the
place happened to have a bottle of that liquor.  The king, after he
had drunk a small glass, fancied a second one, and said that he had
never tasted such delicious ratafia in his life.  That was enough to
give the ratafia of the good man of Neuilly the reputation of being
the best in Europe: the king had said so.  The consequence was that
the most brilliant society frequented the tavern of the delighted
publican, who is now a very wealthy man, and has built on the very
spot a splendid house on which can be read the following rather comic
motto: 'Ex liquidis solidum,' which certainly came out of the head of
one of the forty immortals.  Which gods must the worthy tavern-keeper
worship?  Silliness, frivolity, and mirth."

"It seems to me," I replied, "that such approval, such ratification
of the opinion expressed by the king, the princes of the blood, etc.,
is rather a proof of the affection felt for them by the nation, for
the French carry that affection to such an extent that they believe
them infallible."

"It is certain that everything here causes foreigners to believe that
the French people adore the king, but all thinking men here know well
enough that there is more show than reality in that adoration, and
the court has no confidence in it.  When the king comes to Paris,
everybody calls out, 'Vive le Roi!' because some idle fellow begins,
or because some policeman has given the signal from the midst of the
crowd, but it is really a cry which has no importance, a cry given
out of cheerfulness, sometimes out of fear, and which the king
himself does not accept as gospel.  He does not feel comfortable in
Paris, and he prefers being in Versailles, surrounded by twenty-five
thousand men who protect him against the fury of that same people of
Paris, who, if ever they became wiser, might very well one day call
out, 'Death to the King!' instead of, 'Long life to the King!'  Louis
XIV. was well aware of it, and several councillors of the upper
chamber lost their lives for having advised the assembling of the
states-general in order to find some remedy for the misfortunes of
the country.  France never had any love for any kings, with the
exception of St. Louis, of Louis XII, and of the great and good Henry
IV.; and even in the last case the love of the nation was not
sufficient to defend the king against the dagger of the Jesuits, an
accursed race, the enemy of nations as well as of kings.  The present
king, who is weak and entirely led by his ministers, said candidly at
the time he was just recovering from illness, 'I am surprised at the
rejoicings of the people in consequence of my health being restored,
for I cannot imagine why they should love me so dearly.'  Many kings
might repeat the same words, at least if love is to be measured
according to the amount of good actually done.  That candid remark of
Louis XV. has been highly praised, but some philosopher of the court
ought to have informed him that he was so much loved because he had
been surnamed 'le bien aime'."

"Surname or nickname; but are there any philosophers at the court of
France?"

"No, for philosophers and courtiers are as widely different as light
and darkness; but there are some men of intelligence who champ the
bit from motives of ambition and interest."

As we were thus conversing, M. Patu (such was the name of my new
acquaintance) escorted me as far as the door of Silvia's house; he
congratulated me upon being one of her friends, and we parted
company.

I found the amiable actress in good company.  She introduced me to
all her guests, and gave me some particulars respecting every one of
them.  The name of Crebillon struck my ear.

"What, sir!" I said to him, "am I fortunate enough to see you?  For
eight years you have charmed me, for eight years I have longed to
know you.  Listen, I beg 'of you."

I then recited the finest passage of his 'Zenobie et Rhadamiste',
which I had translated into blank verse.  Silvia was delighted to see
the pleasure enjoyed by Crebillon in hearing, at the age of eighty,
his own lines in a language which he knew thoroughly and loved as
much as his own.  He himself recited the same passage in French, and
politely pointed out the parts in which he thought that I had
improved on the original.  I thanked him, but I was not deceived by
his compliment.

We sat down to supper, and, being asked what I had already seen in
Paris, I related everything I had done, omitting only my conversation
with Patu.  After I had spoken for a long time, Crebillon, who had
evidently observed better than anyone else the road I had chosen in
order to learn the good as well as the bad qualities by his
countrymen, said to me,

"For the first day, sir, I think that what you have done gives great
hopes of you, and without any doubt you will make rapid progress. 
You tell your story well, and you speak French in such a way as to be
perfectly understood; yet all you say is only Italian dressed in
French.  That is a novelty which causes you to be listened to with
interest, and which captivates the attention of your audience; I must
even add that your Franco-Italian language is just the thing to
enlist in your favour the sympathy of those who listen to you,
because it is singular, new, and because you are in a country where
everybody worships those two divinities--novelty and singularity. 
Nevertheless, you must begin to-morrow and apply yourself in good
earnest, in order to acquire a thorough knowledge of our language,
for the same persons who warmly applaud you now, will, in two or
three months, laugh at you."

"I believe it, sir, and that is what I fear; therefore the principal
object of my visit here is to devote myself entirely to the study of
the French language.  But, sir, how shall I find a teacher?  I am a
very unpleasant pupil, always asking questions, curious, troublesome,
insatiable, and even supposing that I could meet with the teacher I
require, I am afraid I am not rich enough to pay him."

"For fifty years, sir, I have been looking out for a pupil such as
you have just described yourself, and I would willingly pay you
myself if you would come to my house and receive my lessons.  I
reside in the Marais, Rue de Douze Portes.  I have the best Italian
poets.  I will make you translate them into French, and you need not
be afraid of my finding you insatiable."

I accepted with joy.  I did not know how to express my gratitude, but
both his offer and the few words of my answer bore the stamp of truth
and frankness.

Crebillon was a giant; he was six feet high, and three inches taller
than I.  He had a good appetite, could tell a good story without
laughing, was celebrated for his witty repartees and his sociable
manners, but he spent his life at home, seldom going out, and seeing
hardly anyone because he always had a pipe in his mouth and was
surrounded by at least twenty cats, with which he would amuse himself
all day.  He had an old housekeeper, a cook, and a man-servant.  His
housekeeper had the management of everything; she never allowed him
to be in need of anything, and she gave no account of his money,
which she kept altogether, because he never asked her to render any
accounts.  The expression of Crebillon's face was that of the lion's
or of the cat's, which is the same thing.  He was one of the royal
censors, and he told me that it was an amusement for him.  His
housekeeper was in the habit of reading him the works brought for his
examination, and she would stop reading when she came to a passage
which, in her opinion, deserved his censure, but sometimes they were
of a different opinion, and then their discussions were truly
amusing.  I once heard the housekeeper send away an author with these
words:

"Come again next week; we have had no time to examine your
manuscript."

During a whole year I paid M. Crebillon three visits every week, and
from him I learned all I know of the French language, but I found it
impossible to get rid of my Italian idioms.  I remark that turn
easily enough when I meet with it in other people, but it flows
naturally from my pen without my being aware of it.  I am satisfied
that, whatever I may do, I shall never be able to recognize it any
more than I can find out in what consists the bad Latin style so
constantly alleged against Livy.

I composed a stanza of eight verses on some subject which I do not
recollect, and I gave it to Crebillon, asking him to correct it.  He
read it attentively, and said to me,

"These eight verses are good and regular, the thought is fine and
truly poetical, the style is perfect, and yet the stanza is bad."

"How so?"

"I do not know.  I cannot tell you what is wanting.  Imagine that you
see a man handsome, well made, amiable, witty-in fact, perfect,
according to your most severe judgment.  A woman comes in, sees him,
looks at him, and goes away telling you that the man does not please
her.  'But what fault do you find in him, madam?'  'None, only he
does not please me.'  You look again at the man, you examine him a
second time, and you find that, in order to give him a heavenly
voice, he has been deprived of that which constitutes a man, and you
are compelled to acknowledge that a spontaneous feeling has stood the
woman in good stead."

It was by that comparison that Crebillon explained to me a thing
almost inexplicable, for taste and feeling alone can account for a
thing which is subject to no rule whatever.

We spoke a great deal of Louis XIV., whom Crebillon had known well
for fifteen years, and he related several very curious anecdotes
which were generally unknown.  Amongst other things he assured me
that the Siamese ambassadors were cheats paid by Madame de Maintenon. 
He told us likewise that he had never finished his tragedy of
Cromwell, because the king had told him one day not to wear out his
pen on a scoundrel.

Crebillon mentioned likewise his tragedy of Catilina, and he told me
that, in his opinion, it was the most deficient of his works, but
that he never would have consented, even to make a good tragedy, to
represent Caesar as a young man, because he would in that case have
made the public laugh, as they would do if Madea were to appear
previous to her acquaintances with Jason.

He praised the talent of Voltaire very highly, but he accused him of
having stolen from him, Crebillon, the scene of the senate.  He,
however, rendered him full justice, saying that he was a true
historian, and able to write history as well as tragedies, but that
he unfortunately adulterated history by mixing with it such a number
of light anecdotes and tales for the sake of rendering it more
attractive.  According to Crebillon, the Man with the Iron Mask was
nothing but an idle tale, and he had been assured of it by Louis XIV. 
himself.

On the day of my first meeting with Crebillon at Silvia's, 'Cenie', a
play by Madame de Graffigny, was performed at the Italian Theatre,
and I went away early in order to get a good seat in the pit.

The ladies all covered with diamonds, who were taking possession of
the private boxes, engrossed all my interest and all my attention.  I
wore a very fine suit, but my open ruffles and the buttons all along
my coat shewed at once that I was a foreigner, for the fashion was
not the same in Paris.  I was gaping in the air and listlessly
looking round, when a gentleman, splendidly dressed, and three times
stouter than I, came up and enquired whether I was a foreigner.  I
answered affirmatively, and he politely asked me how I liked Paris. 
I praised Paris very warmly.  But at that moment a very stout lady,
brilliant with diamonds, entered the box near us.  Her enormous size
astonished me, and, like a fool, I said to the gentleman:

"Who is that fat sow?"

"She is the wife of this fat pig."

"Ah! I beg your pardon a thousand times!"

But my stout gentleman cared nothing for my apologies, and very far
from being angry he almost choked with laughter.  This was the happy
result of the practical and natural philosophy which Frenchmen
cultivate so well, and which insures the happiness of their existence
under an appearance of frivolity!

I was confused, I was in despair, but the stout gentleman continued
to laugh heartily.  At last he left the pit, and a minute afterwards
I saw him enter the box and speak to his wife.  I was keeping an eye
on them without daring to look at them openly, and suddenly the lady,
following the example of her husband, burst into a loud laugh.  Their
mirth making me more uncomfortable, I was leaving the pit, when the
husband called out to me, "Sir!  Sir!"

"I could not go away without being guilty of impoliteness, and I went
up to their box.  Then, with a serious countenance and with great
affability, he begged my pardon for having laughed so much, and very
graciously invited me to come to his house and sup with them that
same evening.  I thanked him politely, saying that I had a previous
engagement.  But he renewed his entreaties, and his wife pressing me
in the most engaging manner I told them, in order to prove that I was
not trying to elude their invitation, that I was expected to sup at
Silvia's house.

"In that case I am certain," said the gentleman, "of obtaining your
release if you do not object.  Allow me to go myself to Silvia."

It would have been uncourteous on my part to resist any longer.  He
left the box and returned almost immediately with my friend Baletti,
who told me that his mother was delighted to see me making such
excellent acquaintances, and that she would expect to see me at
dinner the next day.  He whispered to me that my new acquaintance was
M. de Beauchamp, Receiver-General of Taxes.

As soon as the performance was over, I offered my hand to madame, and
we drove to their mansion in a magnificent carriage.  There I found
the abundance or rather the profusion which in Paris is exhibited by
the men of finance; numerous society, high play, good cheer, and open
cheerfulness.  The supper was not over till one o'clock in the
morning.  Madame's private carriage drove me to my lodgings.  That
house offered me a kind welcome during the whole of my stay in Paris,
and I must add that my new friends proved very useful to me.  Some
persons assert that foreigners find the first fortnight in Paris very
dull, because a little time is necessary to get introduced, but I was
fortunate enough to find myself established on as good a footing as I
could desire within twenty-four hours, and the consequence was that I
felt delighted with Paris, and certain that my stay would prove an
agreeable one.

The next morning Patu called and made me a present of his prose
panegyric on the Marechal de Saxe.  We went out together and took a
walk in the Tuileries, where he introduced me to Madame du Boccage,
who made a good jest in speaking of the Marechal de Saxe.

"It is singular," she said, "that we cannot have a 'De profundis' for
a man who makes us sing the 'Te Deum' so often."

As we left the Tuileries, Patu took me to the house of a celebrated
actress of the opera, Mademoiselle Le Fel, the favourite of all
Paris, and member of the Royal Academy of Music.  She had three very
young and charming children, who were fluttering around her like
butterflies.

"I adore them," she said to me.

"They deserve adoration for their beauty," I answered, "although they
have all a different cast of countenance."

"No wonder!  The eldest is the son of the Duke d'Anneci, the second
of Count d'Egmont, and the youngest is the offspring of Maison-Rouge,
who has just married the Romainville."

"Ah! pray excuse me, I thought you were the mother of the three."

"You were not mistaken, I am their mother."

As she said these words she looked at Patu, and both burst into
hearty laughter which did not make me blush, but which shewed me my
blunder.

I was a, novice in Paris, and I had not been accustomed to see women
encroach upon the privilege which men alone generally enjoy.  Yet
mademoiselle Le Fel was not a bold-faced woman; she was even rather
ladylike, but she was what is called above prejudices.  If I had
known the manners of the time better, I should have been aware that
such things were every-day occurrences, and that the noblemen who
thus sprinkled their progeny everywhere were in the habit of leaving
their children in the hands of their mothers, who were well paid. 
The more fruitful, therefore, these ladies were, the greater was
their income.

My want of experience often led me into serious blunders, and
Mademoiselle Le Fel would, I have no doubt, have laughed at anyone
telling her that I had some wit, after the stupid mistake of which I
had been guilty.

Another day, being at the house of Lani, ballet-master of the opera,
I saw five or six young girls of thirteen or fourteen years of age
accompanied by their mothers, and all exhibiting that air of modesty
which is the characteristic of a good education.  I addressed a few
gallant words to them, and they answered me with down-cast eyes.  One
of them having complained of the headache, I offered her my smelling-
bottle, and one of her companions said to her,

"Very likely you did not sleep well last night."

"Oh! it is not that," answered the modest-looking Agnes, "I think I
am in the family-way."

On receiving this unexpected reply from a girl I had taken for a
maiden, I said to her,

"I should never have supposed that you were married, madam."

She looked at me with evident surprise for a moment, then she turned
towards her friend, and both began to laugh immoderately.  Ashamed,
but for them more than myself, I left the house with a firm
resolution never again to take virtue for granted in a class of women
amongst whom it is so scarce.  To look for, even to suppose, modesty,
amongst the nymphs of the green room, is, indeed, to be very foolish;
they pride themselves upon having none, and laugh at those who are
simple enough to suppose them better than they are.

Thanks to my friend Patu, I made the acquaintance of all the women
who enjoyed some reputation in Paris.  He was fond of the fair sex,
but unfortunately for him he had not a constitution like mine, and
his love of pleasure killed him very early.  If he had lived, he
would have gone down to posterity in the wake of Voltaire, but he
paid the debt of nature at the age of thirty.

I learned from him the secret which several young French literati
employ in order to make certain of the perfection of their prose,
when they want to write anything requiring as perfect a style as they
can obtain, such as panegyrics, funeral orations, eulogies,
dedications, etc.  It was by surprise that I wrested that secret from
Patu.

Being at his house one morning, I observed on his table several
sheets of paper covered with dode-casyllabic blank verse.

I read a dozen of them, and I told him that, although the verses were
very fine, the reading caused me more pain than pleasure.

"They express the same ideas as the panegyric of the Marechal de
Saxe, but I confess that your prose pleases me a great deal more."

"My prose would not have pleased you so much, if it had not been at
first composed in blank verse."

"Then you take very great trouble for nothing."

"No trouble at all, for I have not the slightest difficulty in
writing that sort of poetry.  I write it as easily as prose."

"Do you think that your prose is better when you compose it from your
own poetry?"

"No doubt of it, it is much better, and I also secure the advantage
that my prose is not full of half verses which flow from the pen of
the writer without his being aware of it."

"Is that a fault?"

"A great one and not to be forgiven.  Prose intermixed with
occasional verses is worse than prosaic poetry."

"Is it true that the verses which, like parasites, steal into a
funeral oration, must be sadly out of place?"

"Certainly.  Take the example of Tacitus, who begins his history of
Rome by these words: 'Urbem Roman a principio reges habuere'.  They
form a very poor Latin hexameter, which the great historian certainly
never made on purpose, and which he never remarked when he revised
his work, for there is no doubt that, if he had observed it, he would
have altered that sentence.  Are not such verses considered a blemish
in Italian prose?"

"Decidedly.  But I must say that a great many poor writers have
purposely inserted such verses into their prose, believing that they
would make it more euphonious.  Hence the tawdriness which is justly
alleged against much Italian literature.  But I suppose you are the
only writer who takes so much pains."

"The only one?  Certainly not.  All the authors who can compose blank
verses very easily, as I can, employ them when they intend to make a
fair copy of their prose.  Ask Crebillon, the Abby de Voisenon,
LaHarpe, anyone you like, and they will all tell you the same thing. 
Voltaire was the first to have recourse to that art in the small
pieces in which his prose is truly charming.  For instance, the
epistle to Madame du Chatelet, which is magnificent.  Read it, and if
you find a single hemistich in it I will confess myself in the
wrong."

I felt some curiosity about the matter, and I asked Crebillon about
it.  He told me that Fatu was right, but he added that he had never
practised that art himself.

Patu wished very much to take me to the opera in order to witness the
effect produced upon me by the performance, which must truly astonish
an Italian.  'Les Fetes Venitiennes' was the title of the opera which
was in vogue just then--a title full of interest for me.  We went for
our forty sous to the pit, in which, although the audience was
standing, the company was excellent, for the opera was the favourite
amusement of the Parisians.

After a symphony, very fine in its way and executed by an excellent
orchestra, the curtain rises, and I see a beautiful scene
representing the small St. Mark's Square in Venice, taken from the
Island of St. George, but I am shocked to see the ducal palace on my
left, and the tall steeple on my right, that is to say the very
reverse of reality.  I laugh at this ridiculous mistake, and Patu, to
whom I say why I am laughing, cannot help joining me.  The music,
very fine although in the ancient style, at first amused me on
account of its novelty, but it soon wearied me.  The melopaeia
fatigued me by its constant and tedious monotony, and by the shrieks
given out of season.  That melopaeia, of the French replaces--at
least they think so--the Greek melapaeia and our recitative which
they dislike, but which they would admire if they understood Italian.

The action of the opera was limited to a day in the carnival, when
the Venetians are in the habit of promenading masked in St. Mark's
Square.  The stage was animated by gallants, procuresses, and women
amusing themselves with all sorts of intrigues.  The costumes were
whimsical and erroneous, but the whole was amusing.  I laughed very
heartily, and it was truly a curious sight for a Venetian, when I saw
the Doge followed by twelve Councillors appear on the stage, all
dressed in the most ludicrous style, and dancing a 'pas d'ensemble'. 
Suddenly the whole of the pit burst into loud applause at the
appearance of a tall, well-made dancer, wearing a mask and an
enormous black wig, the hair of which went half-way down his back,
and dressed in a robe open in front and reaching to his heels.  Patu
said, almost reverently, "It is the inimitable Dupres."  I had heard
of him before, and became attentive.  I saw that fine figure coming
forward with measured steps, and when the dancer had arrived in front
of the stage, he raised slowly his rounded arms, stretched them
gracefully backward and forward, moved his feet with precision and
lightness, took a few small steps, made some battements and
pirouettes, and disappeared like a butterfly.  The whole had not
lasted half a minute.  The applause burst from every part of the
house.  I was astonished, and asked my friend the cause of all those
bravos.

"We applaud the grace of Dupres and, the divine harmony of his
movements.  He is now sixty years of age, and those who saw him forty
years ago say that he is always the same."

"What!  Has he never danced in a different style?"

"He could not have danced in a better one, for his style is perfect,
and what can you want above perfection?"

"Nothing, unless it be a relative perfection."

"But here it is absolute.  Dupres always does the same thing, and

everyday we fancy we see it for the first time.  Such is the power of
the good and beautiful, of the true and sublime, which speak to the
soul.  His dance is true harmony, the real dance, of which you have
no idea in Italy."

At the end of the second act, Dupres appeared again, still with a
mask, and danced to a different tune, but in my opinion doing exactly
the same as before.  He advanced to the very footlights, and stopped
one instant in a graceful attitude.  Patu wanted to force my
admiration, and I gave way.  Suddenly everyone round me exclaimed,--

"Look! look! he is developing himself!"

And in reality he was like an elastic body which, in developing
itself, would get larger.  I made Patu very happy by telling him that
Dupres was truly very graceful in all his movements.  Immediately
after him we had a female dancer, who jumped about like a fury,
cutting to right and left, but heavily, yet she was applauded 'con
furore'.

"This is," said Patu, "the famous Camargo.  I congratulate you, my
friend, upon having arrived in Paris in time to see her, for she has
accomplished her twelfth lustre."

I confessed that she was a wonderful dancer.

"She is the first artist," continued my friend, "who has dared to
spring and jump on a French stage.  None ventured upon doing it
before her, and, what is more extraordinary, she does not wear any
drawers."

"I beg your pardon, but I saw...."

"What?  Nothing but her skin which, to speak the truth, is not made
of lilies and roses."

"The Camargo," I said, with an air of repentance, "does not please
me.  I like Dupres much better."

An elderly admirer of Camargo, seated on my left, told me that in her
youth she could perform the 'saut de basque' and even the
'gargouillade', and that nobody had ever seen her thighs, although
she always danced without drawers.

"But if you never saw her thighs, how do you know that she does not
wear silk tights?"

"Oh! that is one of those things which can easily be ascertained.  I
see you are a foreigner, sir."

"You are right."

But I was delighted at the French opera, with the rapidity of the
scenic changes which are done like lightning, at the signal of a
whistle--a thing entirely unknown in Italy.  I likewise admired the
start given to the orchestra by the baton of the leader, but he
disgusted me with the movements of his sceptre right and left, as if
he thought that he could give life to all the instruments by the mere
motion of his arm.  I admired also the silence of the audience, a
thing truly wonderful to an Italian, for it is with great reason that
people complain of the noise made in Italy while the artists are
singing, and ridicule the silence which prevails through the house as
soon as the dancers make their appearance on the stage.  One would
imagine that all the intelligence of the Italians is in their eyes. 
At the same time I must observe that there is not one country in the
world in which extravagance and whimsicalness cannot be found,
because the foreigner can make comparisons with what he has seen
elsewhere, whilst the natives are not conscious of their errors. 
Altogether the opera pleased me, but the French comedy captivated me. 
There the French are truly in their element; they perform splendidly,
in a masterly manner, and other nations cannot refuse them the palm
which good taste and justice must award to their superiority.  I was
in the habit of going there every day, and although sometimes the
audience was not composed of two hundred persons, the actors were
perfect.  I have seen 'Le Misanthrope', 'L'Avare', 'Tartufe', 'Le
Joueur', 'Le Glorieux', and many other comedies; and, no matter how
often I saw them.  I always fancied it was the first time.  I arrived
in Paris to admire Sarrazin, La Dangeville, La Dumesnil, La Gaussin,
La Clairon, Preville, and several actresses who, having retired from
the stage, were living upon their pension, and delighting their
circle of friends.  I made, amongst others, the acquaintance of the
celebrated Le Vasseur.  I visited them all with pleasure, and they
related to me several very curious anecdotes.  They were generally
most kindly disposed in every way.

One evening, being in the box of Le Vasseur, the performance was
composed of a tragedy in which a very handsome actress had the part
of a dumb priestess.

"How pretty she is!" I said.

"Yes, charming," answered Le Vasseur, "She is the daughter of the
actor who plays the confidant.  She is very pleasant in company, and
is an actress of good promise."

"I should be very happy to make her acquaintance."

"Oh! well; that is not difficult.  Her father and mother are very
worthy people, and they will be delighted if you ask them to invite
you to supper.  They will not disturb you; they will go to bed early,
and will let you talk with their daughter as long as you please.  You
are in France, sir; here we know the value of life, and try to make
the best of it.  We love pleasure, and esteem ourselves fortunate
when we can find the opportunity of enjoying life."

"That is truly charming, madam; but how could I be so bold as to
invite myself to supper with worthy persons whom I do not know, and
who have not the slightest knowledge of me?"

"Oh, dear me!  What are you saying?  We know everybody.  You see how
I treat you myself.  After the performance, I shall be happy to
introduce you, and the acquaintance will be made at once."

"I certainly must ask you to do me that honour, but another time."

"Whenever you like."