But nothing happened, and I finally spoke to the Minister’s son, who told me that there was an intrigue on foot to put off my commission until his father’s retirement, after which the Director of Fine Arts--who had no love for me, but whom I need not name since he is dead--hoped that it would be shelved. This Monsieur X. was a Rossinist. One day I heard him giving his opinion of composers, ancient and modern, and rejecting them all, except Beethoven, whom he forgot. Suddenly he bethought him and said: “Let’s see. I believe there is another--a German--what is his name? They play his symphonies at the Conservatoire. You may know him, Monsieur Berlioz?” “Beethoven.” “Ah yes, Beethoven. I believe he has a certain amount of talent.” I heard that myself. _Beethoven not devoid of talent!_ M. de Gasparin had no intention of being ignored; therefore, finding that nothing had been done, he sent for M. X. and ordered him sternly to make out my appointment at once. Naturally this snub did not increase M. X.’s friendly feeling towards me but, armed with my decree, I set to work with the greatest ardour. I had so long ached to try my hand at a Requiem that I flung myself into it body and soul. My head seemed bursting with the ferment of ideas, and I actually had to invent a sort of musical short-hand to get on fast enough. All composers know the bitter despair of losing beautiful ideas through want of time to jot them down. In spite of the rapidity with which I wrote, I afterwards made but few corrections. Is it not strange that, during that volcanic time, I should twice over have dreamed that I was sitting in the Meylan garden, under a beautiful weeping acacia, alone. Estelle was not there, and I kept asking: “Where is she? Where is she?” Who can explain it? Only those who recognise the affinity of the mysteries of the human heart with those of the magnet. Here, briefly, is a list of the miseries I endured over that Requiem. It was arranged that it should be performed at the memorial service held every July for the victims of the Revolution of 1830. I, consequently, had the parts copied, and was beginning rehearsals, when I was told to stop, as the service was to be held without music. Of course the new Minister owed a certain amount to my copyists and chorus (without mentioning myself), yet will it be believed that for five months I had to besiege that department for those few hundred francs? At last, losing all patience, I had a pretty lively quarrel with M. X., and as I left his room the guns of the Invalides proclaimed the fall of Constantine. Two hours later he sent for me in hot haste. A funeral service was to be held for General Damrémont and the soldiers who had fallen in the siege. Now mark! This being a military affair, General Bernard had charge of it, and in this way M. X. hoped to get rid of me and also of the necessity of paying his just debts. Here the drama becomes complicated.