| Citation |
SCGCJ.768.016
2 Feb 1768:11,12 (113)
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 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 we may imagine
very ill. To it again, said the oratour; 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.
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 yet half asleep, he tells him who he is,
and that he is come to demand satisfaction of him for the
affront offered 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 your's, 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, rejoined 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 Malilot, 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 not come here to fight, sir, said he: You
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 better
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. Cupid's 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 abbot required a country dance, then a
horn-pipe, rigadoon, &c. At last, throwing aside his pistol
and drawing his sword---We have now nothing, sir, to
reproach each other with; let us fight. No, cried the
Count, we will not fight. 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 bottle.
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