In Tchaikovsky’s opera The Queen of Spades the old Countess, recalling her life as a beautiful young woman in Paris, sings herself to sleep with a sad little air by Grétry, ‘Je crains de lui parler la nuit’. And here it is in context, picking up from the spoken dialogue, expressing desire more than melancholy, with a contrasting middle section in the major. There’s a countess in Grétry’s opera, too; but the air is sung by Laurette, whose love for Florestan, the governor of the castle, indirectly enables Blondel to rescue King Richard from his imprisonment.

Yes, it’s the legend of Blondel the minstrel, travelling through Europe in search of his master. He arrives in Linz, disguised as a blind old man; and it’s not long before his singing of ‘Une fièvre brûlante’, overheard and echoed by Richard, leads to a joyful reunion. Tchaikovsky’s Countess would be surprised at the setting, as we are not in 12th-century Austria but pre-Revolutionary France. This is a nice touch: Grétry was a favourite composer of Marie Antoinette, and the Opéra Royal in Versailles, where these recordings were made, was built to celebrate her wedding to the Dauphin (later Louis XVI) in 1770. The first performance of the opera, though, took place at the Salle Favart in Paris on October 21, 1784, the third of Grétry’s eight collaborations with the librettist Michel-Jean Sedaine.

The trees framing the view of the castle in Antoine Fontaine’s set for Act 1 are replaced by wall and tower; Act 3 takes place in the house belonging to Williams, an expatriate Welshman and father of Laurette. The curtain rises on the peasants celebrating a wedding in the lilting rhythm of the Overture. This serves to introduce the supposedly blind Blondel, who is guided by the young Antonio. It’s Blondel who is the prime mover of the opera: the part is winningly taken by Rémy Mathieu, who apostrophises his master (‘Ô Richard, ô mon Roi!’) from a platform that runs across the pit behind the conductor. Later he teaches a ditty to Laurette (Melody Louledjian, charming), who learns it by repeating each note as he sings. In between the two numbers he tries to intervene in a spirited quartet where Williams rages at Laurette; and it’s during the following dialogue that the English subtitles disappear, not to return till Act 2.

When Richard makes his entrance he launches into a vigorous air, ‘Si l’univers entier m’oublie’, with martial phrases on the horns and trumpets. The music belies the sense of the words, though, and it’s admirable that Reinoud Van Mechelen resists the temptation to belt it out. When he joins Mathieu in singing Blondel’s tune (one of its many appearances), the effect is ravishing. The object of Richard’s love is Marguerite, the Countess of Flanders and Artois, who is fortuitously paying a visit to the castle. She has very little to sing, but she and her entourage play an important part in the king’s rescue. Marie Perbost carries off the part well: remarkably, she doubles as Antonio, Blondel’s youthful guide, who does get an air to himself.

Marshall Pynkoski’s stage direction is mercifully straightforward, making good use of the side of the pit as well as the platform; Camille Assaf’s period costumes are easy on the eye. Hervé Niquet conducts Le Concert Spirituel, orchestra and chorus, with his customary liveliness and sensitivity. The CD is a recording of a different performance, with the excellent Enguerrand de Hys as Blondel. Unfortunately there are no separate tracks for the dialogue, but anyway this delightful production should be seen, not just heard.