ious and full of brightness, the account given by brave little Huron of the battle in which his valour decided the issue.
Lucile, played in the following years (1769) brought Grétry’s fame to its highest point. It has to be admitted, unfortunately, that the book (by Marmontel), which must be classified in part as lacrimose sentimentalism, contributed not less to the triumph of the work than did the fine healthy music. Lucile, daughter of the rich nobleman Timante, is about to marry for love a charming man of her own station. But her foster father, the peasant Blaise, is invited to the wedding and comes as a kill-joy. The child whom Timante had entrusted to his wife had died, and in order not to lose her pay as wet nurse, she had substituted her own child. Lucile is Blaise’s daughter, and the old fellow, smitten with remorse, comes and unburdens his conscience of this secret which has been weighing on him for eighteen years. You will guess that he does not, as he had feared, cause any domestic cataclysm: the marriage takes place just the same, and everyone is grateful to him for the opportunity he has given them to shew themselves superior to convention, to follow Nature and congratulate themselves upon doing so.
Blaise’s air, “Oh, wife, what have you done?” is indeed superb, and I have already mentioned the extraordinary success of the quartet “Where better should one be than in the bosom of his family?” It lingered long in memory. When Grétry in his old age appeared at the theatre, the audience used to sing it in his honour. The soldiers of Napoleon sang it during the retreat from Russia. And after the restoration, bands used to play it to welcome the royal family in public places. It can be found, I am told, in old collections of songs, those
