“Sufficient, monsieur.” “A-a-ah! But vhat vill you make ’ear at zis conchert?” “Two overtures, some excerpts from an opera and the _Death of Orpheus_.” “Zat competition cantata? I vill not ’ave zat! She is bad--bad; she is impossible to play.” “You say so, monsieur; I judge differently. That a bad pianist could not play it is no reason that a good orchestra should not.” “Zen it is for insult of ze Académie zat you play zis?” “No, monsieur; it is simply as an experiment. If, as is possible, the Academy was right in saying my score could not be played, then certainly the orchestra will not play it. If the Academy was wrong, people will only say that I made good use of its judgment and have corrected my score.” “You can only ’ave your conchert on ze Sunday.” “Very well, I will take Sunday.” “But zose poor _employés_--ze doorkeepers--zey ’ave but ze Sunday for repose zem. Vould you take zeir only rest-day? Zey vill die--zose poor folks--zey vill die of fatigue.” “On the contrary, monsieur. These poor folks are delighted at the chance of earning a few extra francs, and they will not thank you for depriving them of it.” “I vill not ’ave it; I vill not! And I write to ze Director zat he vizdraw permission.” “Most hearty thanks, monsieur, but M. de Larochefoucauld never breaks his word. I also shall write and retail our conversation exactly. Then he will be able to weigh the arguments on both sides.” I did so, and was afterwards told by one of his secretaries that my dialogue-letter made the Director laugh till he cried. He was, above all, touched at Cherubini’s tender consideration for those poor devils of _employés_ whom I was going to kill with fatigue. He replied, as any man blessed with commonsense would, repeating his authorisation and adding: “You will kindly show this letter to M. Cherubini, who has already received the necessary _orders_.” Of course I posted off to the Conservatoire and handed in my letter; Cherubini read it, turned pale, then yellow, and finally green, then handed it back without a word. This was my first Roland for the Oliver he gave me in turning me out of the library. It was not to be my last. XII MY FIRST CONCERT Having secured orchestra, hall, chorus and parts, I only wanted soloists and a conductor. Bloc, of the Odéon, kindly accepted the latter post, and Alexis Dupont, although very unwell, took under his wing my _Orpheus_, which he had promised to sing before the jury of the Institute, had it been passed. But unluckily his hoarseness got so much worse that, when the day came, he was unable to sing at all, so I was deprived of the wicked joy of putting on the programme, “_Death of Orpheus_; lyric poem, judged impossible of execution by the Académie des Beaux Arts, performed May 1828.”