not ill-founded--thanks to the King of Sardinia, whom I had never thought
of.

While we were fighting in Italy, they were singing in France: the operas
of Rameau began to make a noise there, and once more raise the credit of
his theoretic works, which, from their obscurity, were within the compass
of very few understandings. By chance I heard of his 'Treatise on
Harmony', and had no rest till I purchased it. By another chance I fell
sick; my illness was inflammatory, short and violent, but my
convalescence was tedious, for I was unable to go abroad for a whole
month. During this time I eagerly ran over my Treatise on Harmony, but
it was so long, so diffuse, and so badly disposed, that I found it would
require a considerable time to unravel it: accordingly I suspended my
inclination, and recreated my sight with music.

The cantatas of Bernier were what I principally exercised myself with.
These were never out of my mind; I learned four or five by heart, and
among the rest, 'The Sleeping Cupids', which I have never seen since that
time, though I still retain it almost entirely; as well as 'Cupid Stung
by a Bee', a very pretty cantata by Clerambault, which I learned about
the same time.

To complete me, there arrived a young organist from Valdoste, called the
Abbe Palais, a good musician and an agreeable companion, who performed
very well on the harpsichord; I got acquainted with him, and we soon
became inseparable. He had been brought up by an Italian monk, who was a
capital organist. He explained to me his principles of music, which I
compared with Rameau; my head was filled with accompaniments, concords
and harmony, but as it was necessary to accustom the ear to all this, I
proposed to Madam de Warrens having a little concert once a month, to