“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.”