I began.  The King frequently interrupted me by praise or censure, which was always just.  He frequently exclaimed, “That’s in bad taste; this man continually brings the Italian concetti on the stage.”  At that soliloquy of Figaro in which he attacks various points of government, and especially at the tirade against State prisons, the King rose up and said, indignantly: 

“That’s detestable; that shall never be played; the Bastille must be destroyed before the license to act this play can be any other than an act of the most dangerous inconsistency.  This man scoffs at everything that should be respected in a government.”

“It will not be played, then?” said the Queen.

“No, certainly,” replied Louis XVI.; “you may rely upon that.”

Still it was constantly reported that “Figaro” was about to be performed; there were even wagers laid upon the subject; I never should have laid any myself, fancying that I was better informed as to the probability than anybody else; if I had, however, I should have been completely deceived.  The protectors of Beaumarchais, feeling certain that they would succeed in their scheme of making his work public in spite of the King’s prohibition, distributed the parts in the “Mariage de Figaro” among the actors of the Theatre Francais.  Beaumarchais had made them enter into the spirit of his characters, and they determined to enjoy at least one performance of this so-called chef d’oeuvre.  The first gentlemen of the chamber agreed that M. de la Ferte should lend the theatre of the Hotel des Menus Plaisirs, at Paris, which was used for rehearsals of the opera; tickets were distributed to a vast number of leaders of society, and the day for the performance was fixed.  The King heard of all this only on the very morning, and signed a ’lettre de cachet,’—­[A ‘lettre de cachet’ was any written order proceeding from the King.  The term was not confined merely to orders for arrest.]—­which prohibited the performance.  When the messenger who brought the order arrived, he found a part of the theatre already filled with spectators, and the streets leading to the Hotel des Menus Plaisirs filled with carriages; the piece was not performed.  This prohibition of the King’s was looked upon as an attack on public liberty.

The disappointment produced such discontent that the words oppression and tyranny were uttered with no less passion and bitterness at that time than during the days which immediately preceded the downfall of the throne.  Beaumarchais was so far put off his guard by rage as to exclaim, “Well, gentlemen, he won’t suffer it to be played here; but I swear it shall be played,—­perhaps in the very choir of Notre-Dame!” There was something prophetic in these words.  It was generally insinuated shortly afterwards that Beaumarchais had determined to suppress all those parts of his work which could be obnoxious to the Government; and on pretence of judging of the