“I should think so. Hand in glove with him.”
“You know Volney?”
“The good Count with the blue woollen stockings? Certainly.”
“Very well, then, you must be a splendid judge of music.”
“But—why? How?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly how or why. But it seems to me that your title is just as good as that of the gentlemen who do judge. Tell me, though, what happened.”
“Oh, my goodness! It’s always the same old game. If I had thirty children, devil take me if one of them should be an artist of any sort. You see, I am on the inside track, and know how they sell their votes. It’s nothing but a blessed old shop. See here! Once I heard M. Lethière asking M. Cherubini for his vote for a pupil.”
“Don’t refuse, my dear fellow,” he said, “we are such old friends, and my pupil really has talent.”
“No, he shall not have my vote,” Cherubini answered. “He promised my wife an album of drawings that she wanted badly. He hasn’t even done her a single tree!”
“That’s rather too bad of you,” said M. Lethière. “I vote for your people, and you might vote for mine. Look here! I’ll do you the album myself. I can’t say more than that.”