I went to the Opera that night. It was "Don Giovanni"; and as I sat with all the splendour of the Second Empire around me, tier upon tier of beauty and magnificence drawn like gorgeous summer night-moths around the flame of Mozart's genius, the vision of Franzius wandering through the gaslit streets, with his violin under his arm, passed and repassed before me.
He seemed so far from this; his music, before this triumphant burst of song, so like the voice of a cicala, faint and thin, and of no account.
Yet, when I went to bed, the tune that pursued me from the day was the haunting spinning-song of Oberthal—the song so simple and full of fate, the song of the flax, caught and interpreted by the humming strings, telling the story of the cradle, the marriage-bed, and the grave!
I did not go to Etiolles next day, for I had business that detained me in Paris; but I went the day following, and Eloise received me, pouting.
"Ah well, wait!" said I, as I followed her into the Pavilion. "Wait till I tell you what I have been doing, and then you won't scold me for leaving you alone."
"Tell, then!" said Eloise, putting a bunch of violets in my coat, and pressing them flat with her little hand.
"I will tell you," said I, kissing the little violet-perfumed hand. And sitting down, I told her of how I had asked Franzius to let me have his music.
"He sent me the three songs yesterday morning," I went on. "I cannot read music, though I love it; but that did not matter. I had my plan. I ordered the Vicomte's best carriage to the door, and drove to the Opera House, where I inquired of the doorkeeper the address of the best music-publisher in Paris. Flandrin, of the Rue St. Honoré, it seems, is the best, so I drove there.
"It was a big shop. Flandrin sells pianos as well as songs. He is a big man, with a big, white, fat face with an expression like this." I puffed out my cheeks and opened my eyes wide to show Eloise what Flandrin was like. She laughed; and I went on: "He was very civil. He had seen me drive up to his door in a carriage and pair, and I suppose he thought I had come to buy a piano. When he heard my real business his manner changed. He said he was sick of musical geniuses; he would not even look at poor Franzius's 'Lieder.' 'Take them to Barthelmy,' he said. 'He lives in the Passage de l'Opera; he publishes for those sort of people, and he is going bankrupt next week, so another genius won't do him any harm.' 'I haven't time to go to Barthelmy,' I replied. 'Besides, I don't want you to buy these things. I want to buy them.'
"'Well, my dear sir,' said Flandrin, 'if you want to buy them, why don't you buy them?'