t up at the nation's expense. Soon afterwards Mimi ran away
from her mother's house, and she appeared on the stage at St. Laurent's
Fair. Being unknown, she had no difficulty in finding a lover who took
her for a maiden. I found her very pretty on the stage.

"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 write