Still I got something--the post of librarian, which I still hold and which brings me in 118 francs a month. While I was in England,[14] several worthy patriots tried to eject me, and it was only the kind intervention of Victor Hugo--who had some authority in the Chamber--that saved it for me. Another good friend of mine was M. Charles Blanc, who became Director of Fine Arts, and frequently helped me with a ready warmth I shall never forget. XXIV FRIENDS IN NEED And now for my opera and its deadly failure. The strange career of Benvenuto Cellini had made such an impression on me that I stupidly concluded that it would be both dramatic and interesting to other people. I therefore asked Léon de Wailly and Auguste Barbier to write me a libretto on it. I must own that even our friends thought it had not the elements essential to success, but it pleased me, and even now I cannot see that it is inferior to many others that are played daily. In order to please the management of the _Débats_, Duponchel, manager of the Opera--who looked upon me as a species of lunatic--read the libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming. Never shall I forget the misery of those three months’ rehearsals. The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habeneck’s bad temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general hostility against which I was powerless. It was worse when we came to the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habeneck’s surly manner, were cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not. He never could manage the quick _tempo_ of the saltarello; the dancers, unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried: “Faster! Faster! Wake up!” Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow. After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly: “My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello.” He turned to the orchestra. “Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz,” said he, “we will stop for to-day. You may go.” If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not allowed to direct their own works in theatres. Years later I conducted my _Carnaval Romain_, where that very saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present. I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly. The audience cried “encore,” and the second time was even better than the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him over my shoulder. “That’s how it goes.” He did not reply. I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure.