“You know zat you must be pianist, for teach ze ’armonee at Conservatoire, my tear fallow.” “Ah, I never thought of that. That is a capital excuse. You want me to say that, not being a pianist, I withdraw?” “Just so! just so, my tear fallow! But _I_ am not ze excuse zat you vizdraw----” “Certainly not, monsieur; it was stupid of me to forget that only pianists could teach Harmony.” “Yes, my tear boy; embrace me, for I lof you much.” A week after he gave the place to Bienaimé, who played the piano as well as I do! Now I call that a thoroughly well-planned trick, and I was among the first to laugh at it. Soon after, I seriously hurt the feelings of the friend who “lofed me much.” It was at the first performance of his _Ali Baba_, about the emptiest, feeblest thing he ever wrote. Near the end of the first act, tired of hearing nothing striking, I called out: “Twenty francs for an idea!” In the middle of the second I raised my bid. “Forty francs for an idea!” The finale commenced. “Eighty francs for an idea!” The finale ended and I took myself off, remarking: “By Jove! I give it up. I’m not rich enough!” Of course indignant friends of Cherubini told him of my insolence and, considering how he “lofed” me, he must have thought me an ungrateful wretch. I had better explain here how I got on to the staff of the _Débats_. One day, being utterly wretched and not knowing where to turn for money, I wrote an extravagantly amusing tale called “Rubini at Calais.” These contrasts happen sometimes. A few days after it came out in the _Gazette Musicale_, the _Journal des Débats_ reproduced it, with a few words of cordial appreciation from the editor. I went to thank M. Bertin, who offered me the proud post of musical editor. This enabled me to throw up my least well-paid work; yet, all the same, I abominate criticism, and feel quite ill from the moment I see the advertisement of a new performance until I have written my article on it. The ever-recurring task poisons my life. I hate circumlocution, diplomacy, trimming, and all half-measures and concessions. They are so much gall and wormwood to me. People call me passionate, rude, spiteful, prejudiced. O scrubby louts! If you but knew all I _want_ to write of you, you would find your present bed of nettles a couch of roses compared to the gridiron on which I long to toast you! At least I can truly say that never have I grudged the fullest, most heartfelt praise to all that aims at the good and true and beautiful--even when it emanates from my bitterest foes. One day Armand Bertin, who was grieved at my narrow circumstances, told me he had heard that I was to be appointed professor of composition at the Conservatoire, in spite of Cherubini. M. X., whom I met at the Opera, confirmed it, and I begged him to tender my thanks to the Minister for a position that would be to me assured comfort. That was the last I heard of it.