SOME WORDS ABOUT THE OPERA.
The Opera, that temple of pleasure at Paris, was burned in the month of
June, 1781. Twenty persons had perished in the ruins; and as it was the
second time within eighteen years that this had happened, it created a
prejudice against the place where it then stood, in the Palais Royal,
and the king had ordered its removal to a less central spot. The place
chosen was La Porte St. Martin.
The king, vexed to see Paris deprived for so long of its Opera, became
as sorrowful as if the arrivals of grain had ceased, or bread had risen
to more than seven sous the quartern loaf. It was melancholy to see the
nobility, the army, and the citizens without their after-dinner
amusement; and to see the promenades thronged with the unemployed
divinities, from the chorus-singers to the prima donnas.
An architect was then introduced to the king, full of new plans, who
promised so perfect a ventilation, that even in case of fire no one
could be smothered. He would make eight doors for exit, besides five
large windows placed so low that any one could jump out of them. In the
place of the beautiful hall of Moreau he was to erect a building with
ninety-six feet of frontage towards the boulevard, ornamented with
eight caryatides on pillars forming three entrance-doors, a bas-relief
above the capitals, and a gallery with three windows. The stage was to
be thirty-six feet wide, the theater seventy-two feet deep and eighty
across, from one wall to the other. He asked only seventy-five days and
nights before he opened it to the public.
This appeared to all a mere gasconade, and was much laughed at. The
king, however, concluded the agreement with him. Lenoir set to work,
and kept his word. But the public feared that a building so quickly
erected could not be safe, and when it opened no one would go.
Even the few courageous ones who did go to the first representation of
“Adéle de Ponthieu” made their wills first. The architect was in
despair. He came to the king to consult him as to what was to be done.
It was just after the birth of the dauphin; all Paris was full of joy.
The king advised him to announce a gratuitous performance in honor of
the event, and give a ball after. Doubtless plenty would come, and if
the theater stood, its safety was established.
“Thanks, sire,” said the architect.
“But reflect, first,” said the king, “if there be a crowd, are you sure
of your building?”
“Sire, I am sure, and shall go there myself.”
“I will go to the second representation,” said the king.
The architect followed this advice. They played “Adéle de Ponthieu” to
three thousand spectators, who afterwards danced. After this there
could be no more fear. It was three years afterwards that Madame de la
Motte and the cardinal went to the ball.