Gounod inhabits a handsome house in Paris. Mdlle. de Bovet has given the following interesting description of his study, which I will take the liberty of reproducing: "It is an immense apartment, rising the height of two floors, lit by a broad window with light-stained glass; it is panelled with oak and vaulted like a church. And is it not the sanctuary of art? At the further extremity, on a platform reached by several low steps, stands a large organ by Cavaillé Coll; the bellows are worked by a hydraulic machine in the basement. A medallion representing a head of Christ is placed in the centre of the instrument. The writing-table, under the stained-glass window, is one of those composite ones used by musicians, a movable keyboard sliding backwards and forwards under the desk at will. The Renaissance mantelpiece in wood, richly carved in high relief representing scenes of the Passion, is decorated with a bronze medallion of Joan of Arc and massive iron ornaments. In the centre of the room is a large grand piano by Pleyel. One side is filled with bookcases--works on Theology and Philosophy occupying a conspicuous place--and with musical scores; amongst these, the collection of ancient ones inherited by Gounod from his father-in-law is extremely valuable." "In this immense room," writes Mons. Pagnerre, "the author of 'Faust' can often be seen, clad in black velvet, with a loose cravat round his neck, and his feet imprisoned in small slippers fit for a woman. There is ever something feminine about Gounod. His conversation is charming and persuasive. The musician is a witty and eloquent conversationalist. His physiognomy is mobile, his voice is soft, and when he speaks it is like music." The individuality of a great composer is ever attractive to his admirers, and when in addition to his gifts as a creator he possesses that peculiar qualification known as "personal magnetism," their enthusiasm occasionally causes them to outstep the bounds of common-sense. It is especially members of the fair sex who are prone to indulge in exaggerated expressions of hero-worship. The emotional nature of music causes it to appeal to their minds with such intensity that they make a fetish of their idol, and fall down and worship not only him but everything he touches and looks upon. There are plenty of most amusing incidents on record which might be cited in support of this. Amongst these I will mention the following, concerning which it may be said, _Se non è vero, è ben trovato_: A story is told of a lady admirer of his who once paid him a visit. Noticing a cherry-stone on the mantelpiece, she annexed it, took it home and had it set by a jeweller as a brooch, surrounded by diamonds and pearls. Paying a visit to Gounod some weeks later the lady drew attention to her act of reverence, when Gounod said: "But, madam, I never eat cherries; the stone you found on the mantelpiece was from a cherry eaten by my servant Jean!" Tableau!