I glanced at Mattia as much as to say that the barber musician was not the man we were looking for, that it would be wasting good money to consult him, but Mattia, instead of understanding my look, sat down in a chair with a deliberate air. "Will you cut my hair after you have shaved that gentleman?" he asked. "Certainly, young man, and I'll give you a shave also, if you like." "Thanks," replied Mattia. I was abashed at his assurance. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, to ask me to wait before getting annoyed. When the man was shaved, M. Espinassous, with towel over his arm, prepared to cut Mattia's hair. "Monsieur," said Mattia, while the barber tied the sheet round his neck, "my friend and I had an argument, and as we know that you are a celebrated musician, we thought that you would give us your advice and settle the matter for us." "What is it, young man?" Now I knew what Mattia was driving at! First of all, he wanted to see if this barber-musician was capable of replying to our questions; if so, he intended to get a music lesson at the price of a hair cut. All the while Mattia was having his hair cut, he asked questions. The barber-musician was highly amused, but answered each question put to him quickly and with pleasure. When we were ready to leave he asked Mattia to play something on his violin. Mattia played a piece. "And you don't know a note of music!" cried the barber, clapping his hands, and looking affectionately at Mattia as though he had known and loved him all his life. "It is wonderful!" Mattia took a clarionette from amongst the instruments and played on it; then a cornet. "Why, the youngster's a prodigy!" cried M. Espinassous in rapture; "if you will stay here with me I'll make you a great musician. In the mornings you shall learn to shave my customers and the rest of the day you shall study music. Don't think, because I'm a barber, I don't know music. One has to live!" I looked at Mattia. What was he going to reply? Was I to lose my friend, my chum, my brother? "Think for your own good, Mattia," I said, but my voice shook. "Leave my friend?" he cried, linking his arm in mine; "that I never could, but thank you all the same, Monsieur." M. Espinassous insisted, and told Mattia that later they would find the means to send him to the Conservatoire in Paris, because he would surely be a great musician! "Leave Remi? never!" "Well, then," replied the barber, sorrowfully, "let me give you a book and you can learn what you do not know from that." He took a book out of one of the drawers, entitled, "The Theory of Music." It was old and torn, but what did that matter? Taking a pen, he sat down and wrote on the first page: "To a child who, when he becomes celebrated, will remember the barber of Mendes." I don't know if there were any other professors of music at Mendes, but that was the only one we knew, and we never forgot him. CHAPTER XXIV FRIENDSHIP THAT IS TRUE