* * * * * But to return to _Benvenuto_. Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and several declared that this was the most original score they had ever played. Duponchel heard them and said: “Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz’ music charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies.” Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing _J’ai du bon tabac_ instead of their parts. It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners, who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath his dignity. The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times. It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and which deserve a better fate.[15] _Benvenuto_ took me a long time to write and would never have been ready--tied as I was by my bread-earning journalistic work--had it not been for the help of a friend. It was heart-breaking, and I had almost given up the opera in despair when Ernest Legouvé came to me, asking: “Is your opera done?” “First act not even ready yet. I have no time to compose.” “But supposing you had time----” “I would write from dawn till dark.” “How much would make you independent?” “Two thousand francs.” “And suppose someone--If someone--Come, do help me out!” “With what? What do you mean?” “Why, suppose a friend lent it to you?” “What friend could I ask for such a sum?” “You needn’t ask when I offer it----” Think of my relief! In real truth, next day Legouvé lent me two thousand francs, and I finished _Benvenuto_. His noble heart--writer and artist as he was--guessed my trouble and feared to wound me by his offer! I have been fortunate in having many staunch friends. Paganini was back in Paris when _Benvenuto_ was slaughtered; he felt for me deeply and said: “If I were a manager I would commission that young man to write me three operas. He should be paid in advance, and I should make a splendid thing by it.” Mortification and the suppressed rage in which I had lived during those everlasting rehearsals, brought on a bad attack of bronchitis that kept me in bed, unable to work. But we had to live, and I determined to give two concerts at the Conservatoire. The first barely paid its expenses so, as an attraction, I advertised the _Fantastique_ and _Harold_ together for the 16th December 1838.