struck up, relieved guard, by coming from the wings, directly in front of the first, who retired in the same measured manner.  Now, if such a practice was well fitted to destroy all that is called illusion on the stage, it is the more striking, because it was done at a time when, according to Diderot’s principles and examples, the most natural naturalness was required upon the stage, and a perfect deception was proposed as the proper aim of theatrical art.  Tragedy, however, was absolved from any such military-police regulations; and the heroes of antiquity had the right of guarding themselves:  nevertheless, the same grenadiers stood near enough behind the side scenes.

I will also mention that I saw Diderot’s “Father of a Family,” and “The Philosophers” of Palissot, and still perfectly remember the figure of the philosopher in the latter piece going upon all fours, and biting into a raw head of lettuce.

All this theatrical variety could not, however, keep us children always in the theatre.  In fine weather we played in front of it, and in the neighborhood, and committed all manner of absurdities, which, especially on Sundays and festivals, by no means corresponded to our personal appearance; for I and my comrades then appeared dressed as I described myself in the tale, with the hat under the arm, and a little sword, the hilt of which was ornamented with a large silk knot.  One day when we had long gone in this way, and Derones had joined us, he took it into his head to affirm that I had insulted him, and must give him satisfaction.  I could not, in truth, conceive what was the cause of this; but I accepted his challenge, and was going to draw my sword.  However, he assured me, that in such cases it was customary to go to secluded spots, in order to be able to settle the matter more conveniently.  We therefore went behind some barns, and placed ourselves in the proper position.  The duel took place in a somewhat theatrical style,—­the blades clashed, and the thrusts followed close upon each other; but in the heat of the combat he remained with the point of his sword lodged in the knot of my hilt.  This was pierced through; and he assured me that he had received the most complete satisfaction, then embraced me, also theatrically:  and we went to the next coffee-house to refresh ourselves with a glass of almond-milk after our mental agitation, and to knit more closely the old bond of friendship.

On this occasion I will relate another adventure which also happened to me at the theatre, although at a later time.  I was sitting very quietly in the pit with one of my playmates; and we looked with pleasure at a pas seul, which was executed with much skill and grace by a pretty boy about our own age,—­the son of a French dancing-master, who was passing through the city.  After the fashion of dancers, he was dressed in a close vest of red silk, which, ending in a short hoop-petticoat, like a runner’s apron, floated above the knee.  We had given our