Though ignorant of the reason of my trouble, the great artist gave me the best advice, showing me that hard work and love of art were the sovereign remedies for a mind diseased; telling me that the Minister knew nothing of my escapade, and that I should be received with open arms in Rome. “They are saved!” I sighed. “Suppose I live too?--live quietly, happily, musically? Why not? Let’s try!” So for a month I dwelt alone at Nice, writing the _King Lear_ overture, bathing in the sea, wandering through orange groves, and sleeping on the healthy slopes of the Villefranche hills. Thus passed the twenty happiest days of my life. Oh, Nizza! But the King of Sardinia’s police put an end to this idyllic life. I had spoken to one or two officers of the garrison, and had even played billiards with them. This was sufficient to rouse the darkest suspicions. “This musician cannot have come to hear _Mathilde de Sabran_” (the only opera given just then), “since he never goes near the theatre. He wanders alone on the hills, no doubt expecting a signal from some revolutionary vessel; he never dines at _table d’hôte_ in order to avoid spies; he is ingratiating himself with our officers in order to start negotiations with them in the name of Young Italy. It is a flagrant conspiracy!” I was summoned to the police office. “What are you doing here, sir?” “Recruiting after a terrible illness. I compose, I dream, I thank God for the glorious sun, the sea, the flower-clothed hillsides----” “You are not an artist?” “No.” “Yet you wander about with a book in your hand. Are you making plans?” “Yes, the plan of an overture to _King Lear_--at least the instrumentation is nearly finished, and I believe its reception will be tremendous.” “What do you mean by reception? Who is this King Lear?” “Oh, a wretched old English king.” “English king?” “Yes; according to Shakespeare he lived about eighteen hundred years ago, and was idiotic enough to divide his kingdom between two wicked daughters, who kicked him out when he had nothing more to give them. You see, there are few kings that----” “Never mind kings now. What do you mean by instrumentation?” “It is a musical term.” “Same excuse again! Sir, I know that you cannot possibly compose wandering about the beach with only a pencil and paper, and no piano, so tell me where you wish to go, and your passport shall be made out. You cannot remain here.” “Then I will go back to Rome, and, by your leave, continue to compose without a piano.” Next day I left Nice, greatly against the grain, but I was brisk and light-hearted, well and thoroughly cured. Thus once more loaded pistols missed fire. Never mind. My little drama was interesting, and I cannot help regretting it--just a little! _To_ H. FERRAND. “_11th May 1831._--Well, Ferrand, I am getting on. Rage, threats of vengeance, grinding of teeth, tortures of hell--all over and done with!