It was a mercy I had not to appear before the formidable author of _Medea_, for the year before I had put him into one of his white rages by thwarting him. Now the Conservatoire had not been run on precisely Puritanic lines, so, when Cherubini succeeded Perne as director, he thought proper to begin by making all sorts of vexatious rules. For instance, men must use only the door into the Faubourg Poissonière and women that into the Rue Bergère--which were at opposite ends of the building. One day, knowing nothing of the new rule, I went in by the feminine door, but was stopped by a porter in the middle of the courtyard and told to go back and all round the streets to the masculine door. I told the man I would be hanged if I did, and calmly marched on. I had been buried in _Alcestis_ for a quarter of an hour, when in burst Cherubini, looking more wicked and cadaverous and dishevelled even than usual. With my enemy, the porter, at his heels, he jerked round the tables, narrowly eyeing each student, and coming at last to a dead stop in front of me. “That’s him,” said the porter. Cherubini was so furious that, for a time, he could not speak, and, when he did, his Italian accent made the whole thing more comical than ever--if possible. “Eh! Eh! Eh!” he stuttered, “so it is you vill come by ze door I vill not ’ave you?” “Monsieur, I did not know of the new rule; next time----” “Next time? Vhat of zis next time? Vhat is it zat you come to do ’ere?” “To study Gluck, Monsieur, as you see.” “Gluck! and vhat is it to you ze scores of Gluck? Vhere get you permission for enter ze library?” “Monsieur” (I was beginning to lose my temper too), “the scores of Gluck are the most magnificent dramatic works I know, and I need no permission to use the library since, from ten to three, it is open to all.” “Zen I forbid zat you return.” “Excuse me, I shall return whenever I choose.” That made him worse. “Vha-Vha-Vhat is your name?” he stammered. “My name, Monsieur, you shall hear some day, but not now.” “Hotin,” to the porter, “catch ’im and make ’im put in ze prison.” So off we went, the two--master and servant--hot foot after me round the tables. We knocked over desks and stools in our headlong flight, to the amazement of the quiet onlookers, but I dodged them successfully, crying mockingly as I reached the door: “You shan’t have either me or my name, and I shall soon be back here studying Gluck.” That was my first meeting with Cherubini, and I rather wondered whether he would remember it when I met him next in a less irregular manner. It is odd that, twelve years later, in spite of him, I should have been appointed first curator, then librarian of that very library. As for Hotin, he is now my devoted slave and a rabid admirer of my music. I have many other Cherubini stories to tell. Any way, if he chastised me with whips, I certainly returned the compliment with scorpions. VI MY FATHER’S DECISION