For when Garat began this air with his
full voice, and every countenance was directed to the box where the
royal family were sitting, the whole theatre rose, and the hundreds
upon hundreds present had joined in the loud, jubilant strains--"Oh,
Richard! oh, mon roi!" Louis XVI. was grateful to the spirited
singer, who, in that stormy time, had the courage to publicly offer
him homage, and he had therefore acceded to the request of the
queen, that Garat should be invited to the private concerts of the
queen at Versailles, and give her instruction on those occasions in
the art of singing.
Marie Antoinette thought of those pleasant days of the past, as she
sat in the still, deserted music-room, where the instruments stood
silent by the wall--where there were no hands to entice the cheerful
melodies from the strings, as there had once been.
"I wish that I had never sung duets with Garat," whispered the queen
to herself. "The king allowed me, but yet I ought not to have done
it. A queen has no right to be free, merry, and happy. A queen can
practise the fine arts only alone, and in the silence of her own
apartments. I would I had never sung with Garat." [Footnote: The
queen's own words.--See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii.]
She sat down before the spinet and opened it. Her fingers glided
softly over the keys, and for the first time, in long months of
silence, the room resounded with the tones of music.
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