I have spoken of the extreme joy I experienced in writing _Sapho_, an opera in five acts. Henri Cain and dear Arthur Bernéde had ably contrived the libretto. Never before had the rehearsals of a work seemed more enrapturing. The task was both easy and agreeable with such excellent artists. While the rehearsals were going on so well, my wife and I went to dine one evening at Alphonse Daudet's. He was very fond of us. The first proofs had been laid on the piano. I can still see Daudet seated on a cushion and almost brushing the keyboard with his handsome head so delightfully framed in his beautiful thick hair. It seemed to me that he was deeply moved. The vagueness of his short sightedness made his eyes still more admirable. His soul with all its pure, tender poetry spoke through them. It would be difficult to experience again such moments as my wife and I knew then. As they were about to begin the first rehearsals of _Sapho_, Danbé, who had been my friend since childhood, told the musicians in the orchestra what an emotional work they were to play. Finally, the first performance came on November 27, 1897. The evening must have been very fine, for the next day the first mail brought me the following note: _My dear Massenet:_ I am happy at your great success. With Massenet and Bizet, _non omnis moriar_. Tenderly yours, ALPHONSE DAUDET. I learned that my beloved friend and famous collaborator had been present at the first performance, at the back of a box, although he had stopped going out save on rare occasions. His appearance at the performance touched me all the more. One evening I decided to go to the playhouse, in the wings, and I was shocked at Carvalho's appearance. He was always so alert and carried himself so well, but now he was bent and his eyes were bloodshot behind his blue glasses. Nevertheless his good humor and gentleness toward me were the same as ever. His condition could but cause me anxiety. How true my sad presentiments were! My poor director was to die on the third day. Almost at the same time I learned that Daudet, whose life had been so admirably rounded out, had heard his last hour strike on the clock of time. Oh mysterious, implacable Timepiece! I felt one of its sharpest strokes. Carvalho's funeral was followed by a considerable crowd. His son burst into sobs behind his funeral car and could scarcely see. Everything in that sad, impressive procession was painful and heartrending. Daudet's obsequies were celebrated with great pomp at Sainte Clotilde. _La Solitude_ from _Sapho_ (the entr'acte from the fifth act) was played during the service after the chanting of the _Dies Irae_. I was obliged to make my way almost by main force through the great crowd to get into the church. It was like a hungry, eager reflection of that long line of admirers and friends he had during his lifetime.