the piece, by the infinite vexations it brought upon me.  It was the germ of the secret jealousies which did not appear until a long time afterwards.  After its success I did not remark, either in Grimm, Diderot, or any of the men of letters, with whom I was acquainted, the same cordiality and frankness, nor that pleasure in seeing me, I had previously experienced.  The moment I appeared at the baron’s, the conversation was no longer general; the company divided into small parties; whispered into each other’s ears; and I remained alone, without knowing to whom to address myself.  I endured for a long time this mortifying neglect; and, perceiving that Madam d’Holbach, who was mild and amiable, still received me well, I bore with the vulgarity of her husband as long as it was possible.  But he one day attacked me without reason or pretence, and with such brutality, in presence of Diderot, who said not a word, and Margency, who since that time has often told me how much he admired the moderation and mildness of my answers, that, at length driven from his house, by this unworthy treatment, I took leave with a resolution never to enter it again.  This did not, however, prevent me from speaking honorably of him and his house, whilst he continually expressed himself relative to me in the most insulting terms, calling me that ‘petit cuistre’:  the little college pedant, or servitor in a college, without, however, being able to charge me with having done either to himself or any person to whom he was attached the most trifling injury.  In this manner he verified my fears and predictions, I am of opinion my pretended friends would have pardoned me for having written books, and even excellent ones, because this merit was not foreign to themselves; but that they could not forgive my writing an opera, nor the brilliant success it had; because there was not one amongst them capable of the same, nor in a situation to aspire to like honors.  Duclos, the only person superior to jealousy, seemed to become more attached to me:  he introduced me to Mademoiselle Quinault, in whose house I received polite attention, and civility to as great an extreme, as I had found a want of it in that of M. d’Holbach.

Whilst the performance of the ‘Devin du Village’ was continued at the opera-house, the author of it had an advantageous negotiation with the managers of the French comedy.  Not having, during seven or eight years, been able to get my ‘Narcissis’ performed at the Italian theatre, I had, by the bad performance in French of the actors, become disgusted with it, and should rather have had my piece received at the French theatre than by them.  I mentioned this to La None, the comedian, with whom I had become acquainted, and who, as everybody knows, was a man of merit and an author.  He was pleased with the piece, and promised to get it performed without suffering the name of the author to be known; and in the meantime procured me the freedom of the theatre,