lazy Rameau, the fool, the
clown, the gourmand. Each of these epithets was to me a smile, a
caress, a slap on the back, a box on the ears, a kick, a dainty morsel
thrown upon my plate at dinner, a liberty permitted me after dinner as
if it were of no account; for I am of no account. People make of me
and do before me and with me whatever they please, and I never give it
a thought....

_I_--You have been giving lessons, I understand, in accompaniment and
composition?

_He_--Yes.

_I_--And you knew absolutely nothing about it?

_He_--No, by Heaven; and for that very reason I was a much better
teacher than those who imagine they know something about it. At all
events, I didn't spoil the taste nor ruin the hands of my young
pupils. If when they left me they went to a competent master, they had
nothing to unlearn, for they had learned nothing, and that was just so
much time and money saved.

_I_--But how did you do it?

_He_--The way they all do it. I came, threw myself into a chair:--"How
bad the weather is! How tired the pavement makes one!" Then some
scraps of town gossip:... "At the last Amateur Concert there was an
Italian woman who sang like an angel.... Poor Dumenil doesn't know
what to say or do," etc., etc. ... "Come, mademoiselle, where is your
music-book?" And as mademoiselle displays no great haste, searches
every nook and corner for the book, which she has mislaid, and finally
calls the maid to help her, I continue:--"Little Clairon is an enigma.
There is talk of a perfectly absurd marriage of--what is her
name?"--"Nonsense, Rameau, it isn't possible."--"They say the affair
is all settled." ... "There is a rumor that Voltaire is dead,"--"All
the better."--"Why all the better?"--"Then he is sure to treat us to
some droll skit. That's a way he has, a fortnight before his death."
What more should I say? I told a few scandals about the families in
the houses where I am received, for we are all great scandal-mongers.
In short, I played the fool; they listened and laughed, and exclaimed,
"He is really too droll, isn't he?" Meanwhile the music-book had been
found under a chair, where a little dog or a little cat had worried
it, chewed it, and torn it. Then the pretty child sat down at the
piano and began to make a frightful noise upon it. I went up to her,
secretly making a sign of approbation to her mother. "Well, now, that
isn't so bad," said the mother; "one needs only to make up one's mind
to a thing; but