ere off; the carriage drove us to the count's
hotel, rue de la Culture-Saint-Gervais. Sophy laughed and sung. In the
morning I wrote to the manager of the opera, that by the advice of my
physician it was impossible for me to appear for three weeks. To tell you
the truth, gentlemen, in a week's time I went myself to inform the manager
that I would dance that evening. This, you perceive, is not very
flattering to the Count de Melun; but there are so few men in this world
who are sufficiently interesting for a week together. I loved the count,
doubtless, but I wanted to breathe a little without him. I desired the
excitement of the theatre. I opened my window, constantly, as if I would
fly out of it.

"As soon as I appeared at the opera my father followed my track, and
discovered the retreat of his daughters. One evening behind the scenes, he
went straight to the count and insulted him. The count answered him, with
great deference, that he would avoid the chance of taking the life of a
gallant gentleman who had given birth to such a daughter as I was. My
father did his best to prove and establish his sixteen quarterings, the
count was not willing to fight him. It was about that time that my father
presented his famous petition to the Cardinal de Fleury: 'Your petitioner
would state to the Lord Cardinal, that the Count de Melun, having carried
off his two daughters in the night, between the 10th and 11th of the month
of May, 1728, holds them imprisoned in his hotel, rue de la
Culture-Saint-Gervais. Your petitioner having to do with a person of rank,
is obliged to have recourse to his majesty's ministers; he hopes, through
the goodness of the king, justice will be done him, and that the Count de
Melun will be commanded to espouse the elder daughter of your petitioner,
and endow the younger.'

"A father could not have done better. The Cardinal de Fleury amused
himself a good deal with the petition, and recommended me, one day that we
were supping together, for full penance, to make over to my father my
salary at the opera. But I find I am not getting on with my story. But
what would you have? The beginning is always where we dwell with the
greatest pleasure. I had been living in the count's hotel a year; Sophy
had returned to my father's house, where she did not remain long; but it
is not her history that I am relating. One morning a cousin of the count
arrived at the hotel in a great bustle; he was about spending a season in