| Citation |
PC.768.020
25 Jan-1 Feb 1768:31, 32 (2/55)
Extract of a letter from Paris, Oct. 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
surrounded 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 orator 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 you, if you
like that better. The poor devil seeing there was no
reasoning with these gentlemen, set about his part, and
sung, as you may imagine, very ill. To it again, Sir, said
the orator, we shall perform better the second time. In
short, they made him pass through the whole scale of musick,
after which they withdrew with great commendations on his
voice, and, above all, on his complaisance in singing.
. . .[Abbe finds their coachman, identifies his tormentor,
visits him the next morning and challenges him to duel.]
While the musqueteer was stripping, 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 make me sing yesterday
against my will. I take you to be a very good dancer, and
you shall dance, or I will blow out your brains. In vain
the soldier, startled at the pistol, would have pleaded the
laws of honour. You was a stranger to them yesterday, said
the Abbe, and deserve no other usage. No more ceremony, or
I 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.
Cupis' Minuet is what I am going to sing, said the Abbe, who
thereupon warbles out the tune, directing his pupil all the
while by the pistol. When the minuet was over, the Abbe
required a country dance, then a horn pipe, rigadoon, &c.
At last, throwing aside his pistol and drawing his sword--we
have nothing, Sir, to reproach each other with; let us
fight. No, cry'd the Count, we will not; you are too brave
a conqueror, you have corrected my folly, I am to thank you
for your lesson, let us be friends. The two combatants
embraced each other, and went to seal their friendship over
a bottle."
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