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.”