I walked rapidly towards the Porte de l’Etoile, where, seeing that the place was deserted, I abruptly asked the fellow what he wanted, and why he had attacked me.

“I am the Chevalier de Talvis,” he answered.  “You have insulted an honest woman who is under my protection; unsheath!”

With these words he drew his long sword; I unsheathed mine; after a minute or two I lunged rapidly, and wounded him in the breast.  He jumped backward, exclaiming that I had wounded him treacherously.

“You lie, you rascally mannikin! acknowledge it, or I thrust my sword through your miserable body.”

“You will not do it, for I am wounded; but I insist upon having my revenge, and we will leave the decision of this to competent judges.”

“Miserable wrangler, wretched fighter, if you are not satisfied, I will cut off your ears!”

I left him there, satisfied that I had acted according to the laws of the duello, for he had drawn his sword before me, and if he had not been skilful enough to cover himself in good time, it was not, of course, my business to teach him.  Towards the middle of August I left Paris with my brother.  I had made a stay of two years in that city, the best in the world.  I had enjoyed myself greatly, and had met with no unpleasantness except that I had been now and then short of money.  We went through Metz, Mayence, and Frankfort, and arrived in Dresden at the end of the same month.  My mother offered us the most affectionate welcome, and was delighted to see us again.  My brother remained four years in that pleasant city, constantly engaged in the study of his art, and copying all the fine paintings of battles by the great masters in the celebrated Electoral Gallery.

He went back to Paris only when he felt certain that he could set criticism at defiance; I shall say hereafter how it was that we both reached that city about the same time.  But before that period, dear, reader, you will see what good and adverse fortune did for or against me.

My life in Dresden until the end of the carnival in 1753 does not offer any extraordinary adventure.  To please the actors, and especially my mother, I wrote a kind of melodrama, in which I brought out two harlequins.  It was a parody of the ‘Freres Ennemis’, by Racine.  The king was highly amused at the comic fancies which filled my play, and he made me a beautiful present.  The king was grand and generous, and these qualities found a ready echo in the breast of the famous Count de Bruhl.  I left Dresden soon after that, bidding adieu to my mother, to my brother Francois, and to my sister, then the wife of Pierre Auguste, chief player of the harpsichord at the Court, who died two years ago, leaving his widow and family in comfortable circumstances.