[16] Collé, _Journal et Mémoires_, iii. 47 _et seq._ Collé declares that there was a scene in this play worthy of Molière himself. King Pétaud appears dressed as a cook, with a white cap on his head and a knife by his side. He has just made some _pâtés_, which he hands round to his obsequious courtiers, who pronounce them divine, delicious, inimitable, and so forth. One grey-haired old gentleman however refrains from joining in the general chorus of admiration, and when the King, piqued by his indifference, inquires the reason, replies: “Pardon me, Sire; the _pâtés_ are indeed excellent. But, if your Majesty will permit me to speak without flattery, I would venture to observe that the woodcock-pie which you made the day before yesterday appeared to me infinitely superior to them.” Thereupon the King’s brow clears, and, clapping the astute old man on the shoulder, he exclaims: “That is right; I always like people to tell me the truth.” Louis XV., as every one knows, was very fond of preparing dishes with his own royal hands, and decidedly vain of his culinary skill, and no one with any acquaintance with the Court could possibly have missed the point of the satire.
[17] Diderot, _Mémoires et Correspondance_, ii. 62.
[18] _Mémoires et Correspondance_, ii. 42.
[19] Campardon, _Académie Royale de Musique au XVIIIe siècle_: Article, “Arnould.”
[20] Here, according to that princess, was one of _le Grand Monarque’s_ feats in gastronomy: “Four platefuls of different soups, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a plateful of salad, mutton hashed with garlic, two good-sized slices of ham, and afterwards fruit and sweetmeats.”
[21] Some writers declare that, in his passions, he would destroy everything breakable within his reach; others, that he went so far as to strike and even, occasionally, to _bite_ the unfortunate Sophie.
[22] He had previously written a _Clytemnestre_, which Diderot, having had the privilege of hearing the author read it, tells us contained some very fine verses, the work, however, not of the count, but of a “ghost” in his employ, named Clinchant. This play Lauraguais endeavoured to prevail upon the Comédie-Française to produce. The actors found themselves in a somewhat embarrassing position, as the count had just subscribed the 12,000 livres already mentioned towards the alterations in the theatre necessitated by the removal of the seats on the stage, and, from motives of gratitude, they did not like to refuse. On the other hand, the tragedy was so utterly opposed to all the canons of dramatic art that to produce it would be to court not only failure but ridicule. Eventually, however, they persuaded him to withdraw his offer. Notwithstanding its rejection by the Comédie-Française, Lauraguais thought so highly of his _Clytemnestre_ that he caused it to be printed, and sent a copy to Voltaire, who wrote back that his own _Oreste_ was but “_une plate machine_” in comparison with M. le Comte’s superb masterpiece. The noble author, says Diderot, took the poet quite seriously, and his delight and pride knew no bounds.