Rousseau agreed. But he recalled that Rameau had once had a private performance of his opera Armide, behind closed doors, just for himself alone.

Duclos understood what was bothering Rousseau: that the writer of the Prosopopoeia of Fabricius should now become known as the writer of an amusing little operetta. That would certainly be paradoxical. But Duclos thought he saw a way out.

``Let me do the submitting to the Royal Academy,'' he suggested. ``Your name will never appear. No one will even suspect that it is your work.''

To that Rousseau could agree.

But now what crazy twists and turns of his emotions!

Afraid at one and the same time that his work might be turned down -- which would be a blow to his pride even though no one knew he was the author -- and that the work would be accepted, and then that his violent feelings in the matter would certainly betray how deeply concerned he was in spite of himself. And how anxious this lover of obscurity was for applause! And thus torn between his desire to be known as the composer of a successful opera and the necessity of remaining true to his proclaimed desire for anonymity, Rousseau suffered through several painful weeks.

All these emotions were screwed up to new heights when, after acceptance and the first rehearsals, there ensued such a buzz of excitement among Parisian music lovers that Duclos had to come running to Rousseau to inform him that the news had reached the superintendent of the King's amusements, and that he was now demanding that the work be offered first at the royal summer palace of Fontainebleau. Imagine the honor of it!