Though ignorant of the reason of my trouble, the great artist gave me the best advice, showing me that hard work and love of art were the sovereign remedies for a mind diseased; telling me that the Minister knew nothing of my escapade, and that I should be received with open arms in Rome.
“They are saved!” I sighed. “Suppose I live too?—live quietly, happily, musically? Why not? Let’s try!”
So for a month I dwelt alone at Nice, writing the King Lear overture, bathing in the sea, wandering through orange groves, and sleeping on the healthy slopes of the Villefranche hills.
Thus passed the twenty happiest days of my life.
Oh, Nizza!
But the King of Sardinia’s police put an end to this idyllic life. I had spoken to one or two officers of the garrison, and had even played billiards with them. This was sufficient to rouse the darkest suspicions.
“This musician cannot have come to hear Mathilde de Sabran” (the only opera given just then), “since he never goes near the theatre. He wanders alone on the hills, no doubt expecting a signal from some revolutionary vessel; he never dines at table d’hôte in order to avoid spies; he is ingratiating himself with our officers in order to start negotiations with them in the name of Young Italy. It is a flagrant conspiracy!”
I was summoned to the police office.
“What are you doing here, sir?”
“Recruiting after a terrible illness. I compose, I dream, I thank God for the glorious sun, the sea, the flower-clothed hillsides——”