Now Paganini, although it was written at his desire, had never heard _Harold_, and, after the concert, as I waited--trembling, exhausted, bathed in perspiration--he, with his little son, Achille, appeared at the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Consumption of the throat, of which he afterwards died, prevented his speaking audibly and Achille alone could interpret his wishes. He signed to the child, who climbed on a chair and put his ear close to his father’s mouth, then turning to me he said: “Monsieur, my father orders me to tell you that never has he been so struck by music. He wishes to kneel and thank you.” Confused and embarrassed, I could not speak, but Paganini seized my arm, hoarsely ejaculating, “Yes! Yes!” dragged me into the theatre where several of my players still lingered--and there knelt and kissed my hand. Coming away in a fever from this strange scene, I met Armand Bertin; stopping to speak to him in that intense cold sent me home to bed worse than ever. Next day, as I lay, ill and alone, little Achille came in. “My father will be very sorry you are ill,” he said, “if he had not been ill himself he would have come to see you. He told me to give you this letter.” As I began to open it, the child stopped me: “He said you must read it alone. There is no answer.” And he hurried out. I supposed it just a letter of congratulation; but here it is: “DEAR FRIEND,--Only Berlioz can recall Beethoven, and I, who have heard that divine work--so worthy of your genius--beg you to accept the enclosed 20,000 francs, as a tribute of respect.--Believe me ever, your affectionate friend, NICCOLO PAGANINI. “PARIS, _18th Dec. 1838_.” I knew enough Italian to make out the letter, but it surprised me so greatly that my head swam, and, without thinking of what I was doing, I opened the little note which was enclosed and addressed to M. de Rothschild. It was in French and ran: “MONSIEUR LE BARON,--Would you be so good as to hand over the 20,000 francs that I deposited yesterday to M. Berlioz. PAGANINI.” Then I understood. My wife, coming in, thought that some new trouble had fallen upon us. “What is it now?” she cried. “Be brave! we have borne so much already.” “No, no--not that----” “What then?” “Paganini--has sent me--20,000 francs!” “Louis! Louis!” cried Henriette, rushing for her boy, “come here to your mother and thank God.” And together they knelt by my bed--grateful mother and wondering child. Oh Paganini! why could you not be there to see? Naturally, my first thought was to thank him. My letter seemed so poor, so inadequate, that I am ashamed to give it here. There are feelings beyond words.