“Come! come! Do cheer up a bit. Remember it is nothing but a play. Here, take a piece of my orange.” “It’s sublime----” “Yes, it’s Maltese----” “What glorious art!” “Don’t say ‘No.’” “Oh, sir! what music!” “Yes, it’s not bad.” By this time the opera had got to the lovely trio, “Sweet Moments,” and the exquisite delicacy of the simple air overcame me too. I hid my face in my hands, and tears trickled between my fingers. I might have been plunged in the depths of woe. As the trio ended two strong arms lifted me off my seat, nearly crushing my breast-bone in; the enthusiast, recognising one fellow-worshipper amongst the cold-blooded lot around, hugged me furiously, crying: “B-b-b-by Jove, sir! isn’t it beautiful?” “Are you a musician?” “No, but I am as fond of it as if I were.” Then, regardless of surrounding giggles and of my orange-devouring neophyte, we exchanged names and addresses in a whisper. He was an engineer, a mathematician! Where, the devil, will true musical perception next find a lodging, I wonder? His name was Le Tessier, but we never met again. X WEBER Into the midst of this stormy student life of mine came the revelation of Weber, by means of a miserable, distorted version of _Der Freyschütz_, called _Robin des Bois_, which was performed at the Odéon. The orchestra was good, the chorus fair, the soloists simply appalling. One wretched woman alone, Madame Pouilley, by the imperturbably wooden way in which she went through her part--even that glorious air in the second act--would have been enough to wreck the whole opera. Small wonder that it took me a long while to unearth all the beauty of its hidden treasures. The first night it was received with hisses and laughter, the next the audience began to see something in the Huntsmen’s Chorus, and they let the rest pass. Then they rather fancied the Bridesmaid’s Chorus and Agatha’s Prayer, half of which was cut out. A glimmering notion that Max’s great aria was fairly dramatic followed; finally it burst upon them that the Wolf’s Glen scene was really quite comic; so all Paris rushed to see this misshapen horror, the Odéon got rich, and Castilblaze netted a hundred thousand francs for destroying a masterpiece. Now I must own frankly that I was getting rather tired of high tragedy, in spite of my conservatism, and, chopped about as it was, the sweet wild savour of this woodland pastoral, its dainty grace and tender melancholy opened to me a new world of music. I deserted the opera in favour of the Odéon, where I had the _entrée_ to the orchestra, and soon knew _Der Freyschütz_ (according to Castilblaze) by heart. More than twenty years have passed since Weber himself passed through Paris for the first and last time. He was on his way to his London death-bed, and breathlessly I followed in his track, hoping and longing to meet him face to face. One morning Lesueur said: