| Citation |
CG-NH.768.004
19 Feb 1768:13 (596)
EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM PARIS, October 7. Some young
persons walking lately in the wood of Boulogne, perceived
there an abbe singing at the foot of a tree. They drew near
and surround him. The abbe, startled at his auditory, stops
short. The forwardest of them addresses him and tells him,
that attracted by the charms of his voice, they are come
there to listen to him. The singer excuses himself. They
insist; he refuses. The petulant oratour lifts up his cane,
and threatens to take the measure of his shoulders if he
requires any further entreaty. A pretty method indeed of
teaching one to sing, said the abbe.--I agree that it is
rather harsh, but we will cut off your ears for your if you
like that better. The poor devil seeing there was no
reasoning with these gentlemen, set about his part, and
sung, as we may imagine, very ill. To it again, Sir, said
the oratour; we shall perform better the second time. In
short, they made him pass through the whole scale of music,
after which they withdrew with great commendations on his
voice. and above all on his complaisance in singing.
The abbe, who had this scene much at heart, loses no
time, but while the gentlemen continued their walk, laughing
at his expence, he hastens to the gate of Boulogne, and by
the description he there gives of them, he finds out their
coachman. From him he learns that the oratour is the Count
of ----, a black musqueteer, and gets particular information
on his residence. The next morning, very early, the abbe
dresses like a gentleman, and hastens to his house, where he
procures immediate admittance to him. Being left alone with
the Count, who was half asleep, he tells him who he is, and
that he is come to demand satisfaction of him for the
affront given him the evening before. An apostrophe of this
sort was well adapted to rouse the musqueteer, who continued
still dozing. You are absolutely a brave fellow, said the
Count; I love abbes who are ready at every thing; and
nothing, to be sure, is more reasonable than what you
demand; but pray do you understand the sword? That is no
matter of yours, said the abbe, you shall see by and by. Be
it so then, replied the Count, but where shall we fix the
field of battle? On the very spot where the affront was
given, rejoind the abbe. With all my heart said the Count;
and dressing himself instantly, orders his horses to be put
to the carriage. Our two champions repair to the gate of
Maillot, and getting out there, proceed to the place of
rendezvous. While the musqueteer was striping, the abbe
takes a pistol out of his pocket, and claps it to his
breast. We are now come here to fight, sir, said he. You
capriciously made me sing yesterday against my will. I take
you to be a very good dancer, and you shall dance, or I will
blow your brains out. In vain the soldier, startled at the
pistol, would have pleaded the laws of honor. You were a
stranger to them yesterday, said the abbe, and deserve no
other usage. No more ceremony, or I will avenge myself
immediately, let what will come of it. The musqueteer
squeezes his ears, and is obliged to comply. Accordingly he
asks submissively what he must dance. Cupid's Minuet is
what I am going to sing, said the abbe, who whereupon
warbles out the tune, directing his pupil all the while by
the pistol. When the minuet was over, the abbot required a
country dance a hornpipe, rigadoon, &c. At last, throwing
aside his pistol and drawing his sword---We have now
nothing, sir, to reproach each other with; after your
resting awhile, pray let us fight. No, cried the Count, we
will not. You are too brave a conquerer. You have corrected
my folly. I am to thank you for the lesson. Let us be
friends.---The two combatants embraced each other, and went
to seal their friendship over a temperate bottle.
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