With his return to Paris his character took form, and he began his life-long warfare against shams and empiricism. Newspaper work, hated as it was, had a great share in moulding him. Each year he grew more autocratic, and each year more hated for his uncompromising sledge-hammer speech. But Ferrand was correct in saying that he could write. His style is clear, incisive, perfect and even elegant French, although, naturally, owing to the exigencies of its production, it is often unequal. The first years of his marriage were ideal in spite of their penury. The young couple had a côterie of choice friends, amongst whom Liszt took a foremost place, but gradually the clouds gathered, the rift within the lute widened, until a separation became inevitable; even then Berlioz does not attempt--as so many men of his impatient spirit might have done--to shirk responsibility and throw upon others the burden of his hostage to fortune--an unsympathetic invalid--but works the harder at his literary tread-mill to provide her indispensable comforts. Poor Henriette’s side of the story is untold, and one can but say: “The pity of it!” His troubles in Paris and the triumphs abroad that were their antidote made up the rest of his stormy, restless pilgrimage; yet even in ungrateful Paris he was not entirely neglected. He received the Legion of Honour, and although professing to despise it, he always wore the ribbon. He was also chosen one of the Immortals, apropos of which M. Alexandre tells a funny story. Alexandre was canvassing for him and found great difficulty in managing Adolph Adam, who was from Berlioz as the poles asunder. First he went to Berlioz, who had flatly refused to make the slightest concession to Adam’s prejudices. “Come,” said he, “do at least be amiable to Adam; you cannot deny that he is a musician, at any rate.” “I don’t say he is not; but, being a great musician, how can he lower himself to comic-opera? If he chose he could _write such music as I do_.” Undismayed, Alexandre went to Adam. “You will give your vote to Berlioz, will you not, dear friend? Although you cannot appreciate each other, you will own that he is a thorough musician.” “Certainly, he is a great musician, a really great one, but his music is awfully tiresome. Why!”--and little Adam straightened his spectacles--“why, if he chose he could compose ... as well as I do. But, seriously, he is a man of some importance, and I promise that, after Clapisson, who already has our votes, Berlioz shall have the next vacancy.” By a strange coincidence, the next _fauteuil_ was Adam’s own, to which Berlioz was elected by nineteen votes.