Nor was his original genius lessened by his willingness at times to lay hands on the desirable property of other people--since his unlawful acquisitions received always a subtle touch which really made them his own. He knew well how to take the popular airs of the moment--the gavotte or minuet or vaudeville which every one was singing: the good old airs, as we call them now, which then were the newest of the new--and how to infuse into them his own personality and so to fit them like a glove to his own noels. Thus, his Twelfth noel is set to an air composed by Lulli for the drinking song, "Qu'ils sont doux, bouteille jolie," in Moliere's "Medecin malgre lui"; and those who are familiar with the music of his time will be both scandalized and set a-laughing by finding the uses to which he has put airs which began life in far from seemly company. But his forays were made from choice, not from necessity, and the best of his noels are his own. Saboly's music has a "go" and a melodic quality suggestive of the work of Sir Arthur Sullivan; but it has a more tender, a fresher, a purer note, even more sparkle, than ever Sullivan has achieved. In his gay airs the attack is instant, brilliant, overpowering--like a glad outburst of sweet bells, like the joyous laughter of a child--and everything goes with a dash and a swing. But while he thus loved to harmonize a laugh, he also could strike a note of infinite tenderness. In his pathetic noels he drops into thrillingly plaintive minors which fairly drag one's heart out--echoes or survivals, possibly (for this poignant melody is not uncommon in old Provencal music), of the passionately longing love-songs with which Saracen knights once went a-serenading beneath castle windows here in Provence.