GLUCK IN PARIS.
In the street St. Honoré, opposite the principal entrance of the Palais Royal, on a clear evening in the autumn of the year 1779, stood two young officers engaged in a zealous dispute. Suddenly one of them sprang backward a few paces, and, after a pause of an instant, the swords of both flew from their scabbards, and flashed in the lamp-light as they crossed each other.
“Mort de ma vie!” cried another voice, and a powerful stroke forced asunder the weapons of the combatants; “a duel in the open streets, and at night, without seconds? Put up your swords, gentlemen, till to-morrow; then I will second you. My name is St. Val, Captain of Hussars in the Body-guard.”
“St. Val?” was the exclamation that burst from both the young men, and St. Val, recognising them, cried laughing—“How? Montespan! Arnaut? Orestes and Pylades fighting? By Jupiter! that is amazing. What may be your quarrel?”
“Ah!” replied the young Arnaut, “talk not of quarrels. My friend and I were only settling a small difference of opinion with regard to the composers of ‘Iphigenia in Tauris.’ My friend gives his voice for the Chevalier Gluck; I for the admirable Piccini;” and therewith the young men prepared to begin the fight anew.
“Put up your swords!” exclaimed St. Val, once more interfering; “Is that the whole cause of your duel?”
“Does it seem to you insignificant?” asked M. de Montespan.
“Why—not exactly”—replied the peacemaker; “I am aware that the citizens of Paris are at present divided into Gluckists and Piccinists; but Monsieur Arnaut, if you are going to fight the Gluckists, you must first begin with your own uncle, and your idol Jean Jacques.—Follow my advice, Messieurs; put up your swords and come with me to the Palais Royal, where you can cool your blood with a few glasses of orangeade in the Café du Feu. This, by my life, is the first time I ever interfered to stop a duel. But in this case, it seems to me not the silliest thing I could do.”
During the captain’s speech, the rage for fighting had evaporated in the breasts of the young officers. They shook hands cordially, returned their swords to the sheath, and followed St. Val.
The brilliantly illuminated saloon of the Café du Feu was at that time the place of resort for the Parisian bel esprits; every evening they repaired thither, and with them many young gentlemen of the higher classes—amateurs, connoisseurs, and artists who had come to Paris to admire, or if possible to be admired.