The rehearsal of the preceding evening, and the difficulty
of getting into the theater, were the subjects of conversation. An
officer present said he entered with the greatest ease, gave a long
account of what had passed, described the author, and related what
he had said and done; but what astonished me most in this long
narrative given with as much assurance as simplicity, was that it
did not contain a syllable of truth. It was clear to me that he who
spoke so positively of the rehearsal had not been at it, because,
without knowing him, he had before his eyes that author whom he said
he had seen and examined so minutely. However, what was more
singular still in this scene, was its effect upon me. The officer
was a man rather in years; he had nothing of the appearance of a
coxcomb; his features appeared to announce a man of merit; and his
cross of Saint Louis an officer of long standing. He interested me,
notwithstanding his impudence. Whilst he uttered his lies, I
blushed, looked down, and was upon thorns; I, for some time,
endeavored within myself to find the means of believing him to be in
an involuntary error. At length, trembling lest some person should
know me, and by this means confound him, I hastily drank my chocolate,
without saying a word, and, holding down my head, I passed before him,
got out of the coffee-house as soon as possible, whilst the company
were making their remarks upon the relation that had been given. I was
no sooner in the street than I was in a perspiration, and had
anybody known and named me before I left the room, I am certain all
the shame and embarrassment of a guilty person would have appeared
in my countenance, proceeding from what I felt the poor man would have
had to have suffered had his lie been discovered.
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