I come to one of the critical moments of my life, in which it is
difficult to do anything more than to relate, because it is almost
impossible that even narrative should not carry with it the marks of
censure or apology. I will, however, endeavor to relate how and upon
what motives I acted, without adding either approbation or censure.
I was on that day in the same careless undress as usual; with a long
beard and wig badly combed. Considering this want of decency as an act
of courage, I entered the theater wherein the king, queen, the royal
family, and the whole court were to enter immediately after. I was
conducted to a box by M. de Cury, and which belonged to him. It was
very spacious, upon the stage and opposite to a lesser, but more
elevated one, in which the king sat with Madam de Pompadour. As I
was surrounded by women, and the only man in front of the box, I had
no doubt of my having been placed there purposely to be exposed to
view. As soon as the theater was lighted up, finding I was in the
midst of people all extremely well dressed, I began to be less at my
ease, and asked myself if I was in my place? whether or not I was
properly dressed? After a few minutes of inquietude: "Yes," replied I,
with an intrepidity which perhaps proceeded more from the
impossibility of retracting than the force of all my reasoning, "I
am in my place, because I am going to see my own piece performed to
which I have been invited, for which reason only I am come here; and
after all, no person has a greater right than I have to reap the fruit
of my labor and talents; I am dressed as usual, neither better nor
worse; and if I once begin to subject myself to public opinion, I
shall shortly become a slave to it in everything.
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