hinges, or the march across the Place of those weary soldiers, coming and
going so interminably, one hardly knows whether to or from battle with the
English and the Austrians, from victory or defeat:--Well! he has become like
one of our family. "He will go far!" my father declares. He would go far, in
the literal sense, if he might--to Paris, to Rome. It must be admitted that
our Valenciennes is a quiet, nay! a sleepy place; sleepier than ever since it
became French, and ceased to be so near the frontier. The grass is growing
deep on our old ramparts, and it is pleasant to walk there--to walk there
and muse; pleasant for a tame, unambitious soul such as mine.


December 1792.

Antony Watteau left us for Paris this morning. It came upon us quite suddenly.
They amuse themselves in Paris. A scene-painter we have here, well known in
Flanders, has been engaged to work in one of the Parisian play-houses; and
young Watteau, of whom he had some slight knowledge, has departed in his
company. He doesn't know it was I who persuaded the scene-painter to take him;
that he would find the lad useful. We offered him our little presents--fine
thread-lace of our own making for his ruffles, and the like; for one must make
a figure in Paris, and he is slim and well-formed. For myself, I presented him
with a silken purse I had long ago embroidered for another. Well! we shall
follow his fortunes (of which I for one feel quite sure) at a distance. Old
Watteau didn't know of his departure, and has been here in great anger.


December 1703.

Twelve months to-day since Antony went to Paris! The first struggle must be a
sharp one for an unknown lad in that vast, overcrowded place, even if he be as