The commencement of a play which formed part of the evening's entertainment obliged us to cease further conversation. The first piece represented was "_Rose et Colas_," a charming pastoral, to which the music of Monsigny gave a fresh charm; the actors were selected from among the best of the Comedie Italienne--the divine Clairval, and the fascinating mademoiselle Caroline. I was completely enchanted whilst the play lasted; I forgot both my cabals and recent triumph, and for a while believed myself actually transported to the rural scenes it represented, surrounded by the honest villagers so well depicted; but this delightful vision soon passed away, and soon, too soon I awoke from it to find myself surrounded by my _excellent_ friends at court. "_Rose et Colas_" was followed by a species of comedy mixed with songs. This piece was wholly in honour of the dauphiness, with the exception of some flattering and gallant allusions to myself and some gross compliments to my cousin the chancellor, who, in new silk robe and a fine powdered wig, was also present at this fête. The performers in this little piece, who were Favart, the actor, and Voisenon, the priest, must have been fully satisfied with the reception they obtained, for the comedy was applauded as though it had been one of the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of Voltaire. In general a private audience is very indulgent so long as the representation lasts, but no sooner has the curtain fallen than they indulge in a greater severity of criticism than a public audience would do. And so it happened on the evening in question; one couplet had particularly excited the discontent of the spectators, male and female; I know not what prophetic spirit inspired the lines. The unfortunate couplet was productive of much offence against the husband and lover of madame Favart, for the greater part of the persons present perfectly detested my poor cousin, who was "to clip the wings of chicanery." Favart managed to escape just in time, and the abbé de Voisenon, who was already not in very high favour with his judges, was compelled to endure the full weight of their complaints and reproaches; every voice was against him, and even his brethren of the French academy, departing from their accustomed indulgence upon such matters, openly reprimanded him for the grossness of his flattery; the poor abbé attempted to justify himself by protesting that he knew nothing of the hateful couplet, and that Favart alone was the guilty person upon whom they should expend their anger. "I am always," cried he, "doomed to suffer for the offences of others; every kind of folly is made a present to me."