ion soon passed away, and soon, too soon I awoke from it to find
myself surrounded by my _excellent_ friends at court.

"_Rose et Colas_" was followed by a species of comedy mixed with songs.
This piece was wholly in honour of the dauphiness, with the exception
of some flattering and gallant allusions to myself and some gross
compliments to my cousin the chancellor, who, in new silk robe and a
fine powdered wig, was also present at this fete.

The performers in this little piece, who were Favart, the actor, and
Voisenon, the priest, must have been fully satisfied with the reception
they obtained, for the comedy was applauded as though it had been one of
the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of Voltaire. In general a private audience is very
indulgent so long as the representation lasts, but no sooner has the
curtain fallen than they indulge in a greater severity of criticism
than a public audience would do. And so it happened on the evening in
question; one couplet had particularly excited the discontent of the
spectators, male and female; I know not what prophetic spirit inspired
the lines.

The unfortunate couplet was productive of much offence against the
husband and lover of madame Favart, for the greater part of the persons
present perfectly detested my poor cousin, who was "to clip the wings
of chicanery." Favart managed to escape just in time, and the abbe de
Voisenon, who was already not in very high favour with his judges, was
compelled to endure the full weight of their complaints and reproaches;
every voice was against him, and even his brethren of the French
academy, departing from their accustomed indulgence upon such matters,
openly reprimanded him for the grossness of his flattery; the poor abbe
attempted to justify himself by protesting that he knew nothing of the
hateful couplet, and that Favart alone was the guilty person upon whom
they should expend their anger.

"I am always," cried he, "doomed to suffer for the offences of others;
every kind of folly is made a present to me."

"Have a care, monsieur l' abbe," exclaimed d'Alembert, who was among the
guests, "have a care! men seldom lavish their gifts but upon those who
are rich enough to return the original present in a tenfold degree."
This somewhat sarcastic remark was most favourably received by all
who heard it, it quickly circulated through the room, while the poor,
oppressed abbe protested, with vehement action.

The fete itself was most splendidly and ta