“They played the great Septuor from _The Trojans_, Madame Charton sang; there was a chorus of a hundred and fifty, and the usual fine orchestra. “The whole programme was miserably received except the _Lohengrin_ March, and the overture to the _Prophet_ was so hissed that the police had to turn out the malcontents. “Then came the Septuor. Endless applause, and an encore. “The second time it went even better. The audience spied me on my three-franc bench (they had not honoured me with a ticket). There were more calls, shouts, waving of hats and handkerchiefs. “‘_Vive Berlioz!_’ they cried. ‘Get up; we want to see you.’ “I, the while, trying to hide myself! “Coming out, a crowd surrounded me on the boulevard. This morning many callers, and a charming letter from Legouvé’s daughter. “Liszt was there. I saw him from my perch. He has just come from Rome. Why were you not there too? “There were at least three thousand people. Once I should have been pleased.... “The effect was grand, particularly the sound of the sea (impossible to give on the piano) at the passage: ‘And the sleeping sea Whispers in dreams her sweet deep chords.’ “It touched me profoundly. “My gallery neighbours, hearing that I was the author of it, pressed my hands and thanked me. “Why were you not there?” * * * * * “_9th March._--Just a word added to what I wrote yesterday. “A few amateurs have written me a round-robin of congratulation. The letter is a slightly altered copy of that which I wrote to Spontini twenty-two years ago about his _Fernando Cortez_. “Is it not a pretty idea to apply to me what I said to him so long ago?” _To_ MADAME MASSART. “_3rd September 1866._--Such a misfortune, dear madame! This morning--yes, really only this morning--I composed the most clever and complimentary letter to you--a master-piece of delicate, dainty flattery. Then I went to sleep and--when I awoke it was all gone, and I am reduced to mere commonplaces. “I will not speak of the boredom you must be suffering in your little card-board bandbox by the sea, lest I should drive you to commit suicide--by no means a suitable way out of the difficulty for a pretty woman! “Yet, what on earth _are_ you to do? “You have gone the round of Beethoven over and over again; you have read Homer; you know some of Shakespeare’s best works; you see the sea every day; you have friends and a husband who worships you. “Great heavens, what _is_ to become of you? “I do my best to make your sea-side life bearable by not coming near you. Can I do more? “I ought to be at Geneva, but a cousin of mine is going to be married next week and wants me to be one of his witnesses.