“You shall have your twenty francs,” I cried; “but for heaven’s sake go on and let me have a little peace.” On the day of the grand rehearsal all went fairly well, except the _Queen Mab_ scherzo, which is too dainty to be treated by so large a body of players. Unfortunately I did not think, at the time, of entrusting it to a small band of picked musicians, so was reluctantly obliged to cut it altogether out of the programme. On the day of the performance I had hoped to keep quiet until the evening, but my friend, Leon Gatayes, came in to tell me that a plot was being hatched by Habeneck’s partizans (who were indignant at his being passed over) to ruin the whole affair. The drum parchments were to be slit, the bows of the double-basses greased, and in the middle of the concert a section of the audience was to shout for the _Marseillaise_. After this, needless to say, I did not take much rest. Prowling restlessly round the Opera, I had the good luck to meet Habeneck; I caught him by the arm. “I hear your musicians are going to play me some tricks. I have my eye on them.” “Oh, it’s all right,” he answered. “I have talked to them; you need not be afraid.” “I am not afraid: on the contrary, I am comforting _you_. You see, if anything happened, it would fall pretty heavily on you. But make your mind easy; they won’t do anything.” And they did not. My copyist had been all day in the theatre guarding the drum and double-basses, and I myself went round to all the desks to ensure each man having his own part. Indeed I was made quite ashamed of myself when I got to the Dauverné brothers; one of them looked up and said reproachfully: “Berlioz, surely you don’t doubt us? Aren’t we decent fellows and your friends?” I grew quite hot and stopped my investigations, for which, it must be owned, there really was some excuse. Nothing went wrong and my _Requiem_ produced its due effect, but during the interval, according to rumour, Habeneck’s cabal howled for the _Marseillaise_. I went to the front of the stage and shouted at the top of my lungs: “We will _not_ play the _Marseillaise_; that is not what we are here for,” and peace reigned once more. Although the receipts were eight thousand five hundred francs, the sum put aside to pay the musicians was not sufficient to fulfil my promises to them, and I had to supplement it by three hundred and fifty out of my own pocket, as the red ink entry in the cashier’s book at the Opera testifies to this day. Thus I organised the most tremendous concert Paris had ever known, and was three hundred and fifty francs put of pocket for my pains. I was likely to grow rich! M. Pillet is a gentleman and I never could understand how he allowed it; perhaps the cashier never told him.