“I did not know,” I said to her, “that you were a musician.”

“I am a musician about as much as all my companions, not one of whom knows a note of music.  The girls at the opera are not much more clever, and in spite of that, with a good voice and some taste, one can sing delightfully.”

I advised her to invite Patu to supper, and he was charmed with her.  Some time afterwards, however, she came to a bad end, and disappeared.

The Italian comedians obtained at that time permission to perform parodies of operas and of tragedies.  I made the acquaintance at that theatre of the celebrated Chantilly, who had been the mistress of the Marechal de Saxe, and was called Favart because the poet of that name had married her.  She sang in the parody of ‘Thetis et Pelee’, by M. de Fontelle, the part of Tonton, amidst deafening applause.  Her grace and talent won the love of a man of the greatest merit, the Abbe de Voisenon, with whom I was as intimate as with Crebillon.  All the plays performed at the Italian Comedy, under the name of Madame Favart, were written by the abbe, who became member of the Academie after my departure from Paris.  I cultivated an acquaintance the value of which I could appreciate, and he honoured me with his friendship.  It was at my suggestions that the Abbe de Voisenon conceived the idea of composing oratorios in poetry; they were sung for the first time at the Tuileries, when the theatres were closed in consequence of some religious festival.  That amiable abbe, who had written several comedies in secret, had very poor health and a very small body; he was all wit and gracefulness, famous for his shrewd repartees which, although very cutting, never offended anyone.  It was impossible for him to have any enemies, for his criticism only grazed the skin and never wounded deeply.  One day, as he was returning from Versailles, I asked him the news of the court.

“The king is yawning,” he answered, “because he must come to the parliament to-morrow to hold a bed of justice.”

“Why is it called a bed of justice?”

“I do not know, unless it is because justice is asleep during the proceedings.”

I afterwards met in Prague the living portrait of that eminent writer in Count Francois Hardig, now plenipotentiary of the emperor at the court of Saxony.

The Abbe de Voisenon introduced me to Fontenelle, who was then ninety-three years of age.  A fine wit, an amiable and learned man, celebrated for his quick repartees, Fontenelle could not pay a compliment without throwing kindness and wit into it.  I told him that I had come from Italy on purpose to see him.

“Confess, sir,” he said to me, “that you have kept me waiting a very long time.”

This repartee was obliging and critical at the same time, and pointed out in a delicate and witty manner the untruth of my compliment.  He made me a present of his works, and asked me if I liked the French plays; I told him that I had seen ‘Thetis et Pelee’ at the opera.  That play was his own composition, and when I had praised it, he told me that it was a ’tete pelee’.