the Innocents, and I lived in
the Street of the Ancient Comedy, t'other side of the River), and asked
him where he was going.

"To get a Billet of Confession," he made answer.

"Stuff and Nonsense!" I answered, in the French Tongue. "They sell them
not at this Hour of Night. Where do you live?"

"In the Parvis of Notre Dame," says he, staring like a Stuck Pig. "O
Arnault! O Jansenius! O Monsieur de Paris! all this is your fault!"

And he lugs out of his Pocket a ragged Sheet of Paper, which he said was
the last Mandement or Charge of the Archbishop of Paris, and was for
reading it to me by the Moonlight; but I stopped him short. I had heard
in a vague manner that the Public Mind was just then much agitated by
some Dispute between the Clergy and the Parliament concerning Billets or
Certificates of Confession; but they concerned neither me nor the Opera
House. Besides, an Hour after Midnight is not the time for reading
Archbishops' Charges in the Public Streets.

"'Tis my belief, Brother," I said, as soothingly as I could, "that you'd
better go Home, and tie a Wet Clout round your Head; or, better still,
hie to a Chirurgeon and be let Blood. Have you e'er a Home?"

He began to tell me that his Name was ROBERT FRANCOIS DAMIENS; that he
had come from Picardy; that he had been a Stableman, a Locksmith, a
Camp-follower, and a Servant at the College of Louis-le-Grand; that he
had a Wife who was a Cook in a Noble Family, and a Daughter who coloured
Prints for a Seller of Engravings. In short, he told me all save what I
desired to know. And in the midst of his rambling recital he stops, and
claps his Hand to his Forehead again.

"What ails you?" I asked.

"_C'est le Sang, c'est le Sang qui me monte a la Tete!_" cries he. "_La
Faute est a Monseigneur et a son Mandement. Je perirai; mais les Grands
de la Terre periront avec moi._"[B]

And with this Bedlamite Speech he broke away from me,--for I had kept a
slight hold of him,--and set off Running as hard as his legs could carry
him.

I concluded that this Red-faced Man must be some Mad Fellow just escaped
out of Charenton; and, having other Fish to fry, let him follow his own
devices. Whereupon I kindled a Pipe of Tobacco, and went home to Bed.

Two days after this (March, 1757), the whole Troop of the Opera House
were commanded to Versailles, there to perform the Ballet of Orpheus
before Mesdames the King's Daughters. I had by this time received slight
Promotion, and