I remember seeing Monsieur Étienne at the Opéra one evening when they were playing a terrible thing called The Nightingale, with music by Monsieur Lebrun (some said Mme. Lebrun) and a “poem” concocted by this same Monsieur Étienne. The illustrious Academician was at the front of the balcony boxes and was attracting the attention of the whole house by the ineffable joy he evidently felt at hearing his own verses sung. When it came to this fine passage in the magistrate’s aria:

Monsieur Étienne let out such a peal of laughter that I felt myself go quite red and walked out, much saddened.

That was the last time I managed to see almost the whole of this celebrated work, in which the nightingale sang with such gusto you could have sworn you were hearing a flute concerto played by Tulou. This fine piece should be revived; I’m sure many people would enjoy it.

as good old La Fontaine said.

The Opéra regulars who knew Mme. Lebrun would certainly be delighted to receive such a favour. She was such an energetic person, especially in her conversation. Her nightingale was first cousin to Gresset’s parrot. F and B were her two favourite consonants. I still blush to recall the compliment she paid me in the church of St.-Roch when my first Mass was performed. After an “O Salutaris” which was quite plain in every respect, Mme. Lebrun came to shake my hand and said in a ringing voice: “My dear boy, there were certainly no flies on that f***ing “O Salutaris” of yours; I’ll be damned if any of those little b*****s in the Conservatoire’s counterpoint classes could come up with anything half so well strung together and so jolly religious.” It was a vote in my favour, since Mme. Lebrun’s opinion was held in great respect at the time.

And how splendidly she used to descend from Heaven as Diana at the dénouement of Iphigenia in Aulis and Iphigenia in Tauris—for in both Gluck’s masterpieces the plot is resolved by the intervention of Diana.