He began to tell me that his Name was Robert François 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 à la Tête!" cries he. "La Faute est à Monseigneur et à son Mandement. Je périrai; mais les Grands de la Terre périront 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 played the Dog Cerberus,—at which my dear little Angel of a Lilias made much mirth. His Majesty was to have waited at Versailles for the playing of the Piece; but after Dinner he changes his mind, and determines on returning to his other Palace of Trianon.
'Twas about Five o'clock in the Afternoon, and there was a great Crowd in the Court of Marble to see the Most Christian King take Coach for Trianon. The Great Court was full of Gardes Françaises, Musqueteers Red and Gray carrying Torches, with Coaches, Led Horses, Prickers, Grooms, Pages, Valets, Waiting Women, and all the Hurley-Burly of a great Court. Some few of the Commonalty also managed to squeeze themselves in—amongst others, your humble Servant, John Dangerous, who was now reckoned no better than a Rascal Buffoon.
'Twas bitterly cold, and freezing hard, and the Courtiers had their hands squeezed into great fur Muffs. I saw the King come down the Marble Staircase; a fair portly Gentleman, with a Greatcoat, lined with fur, over his ordinary vestments—then a novelty among the French, and called a Redingote, from our English Riding-coat.
"Is that the King?" I heard a Voice, which I seemed to remember, ask behind me, as the Monarch passed between a double line of Spectators to his Coach.