Fortunately I met, at the opera, a young and clever music-lover, Augustin de Pons, belonging to a Faubourg St Germain family, who, stamping with impotent rage, had witnessed my disaster at St Roch. He was fairly well off then, but, in defiance of his mother, he later on married a second-rate singer, who left him after long wanderings through France and Italy. Entirely ruined he returned to Paris to vegetate by giving singing lessons. I was able to be of some use to him when I was on the staff of the _Journal des Débats_, and I greatly wish I could have done more, for his generous and unasked help was the turning-point of my career, and I shall never forget it. Even last year he found life very hard; I tremble to think what may have become of him since the February revolution took away his pupils. Seeing me one day in the foyer, he shouted: “I say, what about your mass? When shall we have another go at it?” “It is done,” I answered, “but what chance have I of getting it performed?” “Chance? Why, confound it all, you have only got to pay the performers. How much do you want? Twelve or fifteen hundred francs? Two thousand?” “Hu-s-s-sh, don’t roar so, for heaven’s sake! If you really mean it I shall be most grateful for twelve hundred francs.” “All right. Hunt me up to-morrow and we’ll engage the opera chorus and a real good orchestra. We must give Valentino a good innings this time.” And we did. The mass was grandly performed at St Roch, and was well spoken of by the papers. Thus, thanks to that blessed de Pons, I got my first hearing and my foot in the stirrup--as it were--of all things most difficult and most important in Paris. I boldly undertook to conduct the rehearsals of chorus and orchestra myself, and, with the exception of a slip or two, due to excitement, I did not do so badly. But alas! how far I was from being an accomplished conductor, and how much labour and pains it has cost me to become even what I am. After the performance, seeing exactly how little my mass was worth, I took out the Resurrexit--which seemed fairly good--and held an _auto-da-fé_ of the rest, together with the _Gamester_, _Estelle_, and the _Passage of the Red Sea_. A calm inquisitorial survey convinced me of the justice of their fate. * * * * * Mournful coincidence! After writing these lines I met a friend at the Opéra Comique, who asked: “When did you come back?” “Some weeks ago.” “Then you know about de Pons? No? He poisoned himself last week. He said he was tired of living, but I am afraid that, really, he was unable to live since the Revolution scattered his pupils.” Horrible! horrible! most horrible! I must rush out and work off this horror in the fresh air. * * * * * Lesueur, seeing how well I got on, thought it best for me to become a regular Conservatoire student and, with the consent of Cherubini, the director, I was enrolled.