“Yes. I know the Danaïdes, Stratonice, the Vestal, Œdipus, the two Iphigenias, Orpheus, Armida——”
“There, that will do! That will do! what a devil of a memory you must have! Since you are such a prodigy, give us “Elle m’a prodigué” from Sacchini’s Œdipus. Can you accompany him, Michel?”
“Certainly. In what key?”
“E flat. Do you want the recitative too?”
“Yes. Let’s have it all.”
And the glorious melody:
“Antigone alone is left me,”
rolled forth, while the poor listeners, with pitifully down-cast faces, glanced at each other recognising that, though I might be bad, they were infinitely worse.
The following day I was engaged at a salary of fifty francs a month.
And this was the result of my parents’ efforts to save me from the bottomless pit! Instead of a cursed dramatic composer I had become a damned theatre chorus-singer, excommunicated with bell, book and candle. Surely my last state was worse than my first!