Next day I made Mendelssohn’s acquaintance; but more of this when I come to write of Germany.[10]
For a while I got on fairly well in this new life, then gradually my anxiety about my Paris letters, which were not forthcoming, increased to such an extent that, in defiance of the kindly expostulations of M. Horace Vernet, who tried to restrain me by saying that I must be struck off the list of pensionnaires if I broke the Academy’s most stringent rule, I decided to return to Paris.
I started, but at Florence was kept in bed a week by quinsy, and so made the acquaintance of Schlick, the Danish sculptor, a thoroughly good fellow of much talent. During this week I rewrote the Ball Scene for my Symphonie Fantastique, and added the present Coda.
It was not quite finished when, the first time I was able to go out, I fetched my letters from the post. Among them was one of such unparalleled impudence that I fairly took leave of my senses. Needless to say, it was from Camilla’s mother. In it, after accusing me of bringing annoyance into her household, she announced the marriage of my fiancée to M. Pleyel.
In two minutes my plans were laid. I must hurry to Paris to kill two guilty women and one innocent man; for, this act of justice done, I, too, must die!
They would expect me, therefore I must go disguised. I hurried to Schlick and showed him the letter.
“It is scandalous,” he said. “What will you do?”
I thought it best to deceive him so as to be absolutely free.
“Do? Why, return to France. But I will go to my father’s, not to Paris.”
“Right!” he replied. “Your own home will best soothe your wounded heart. Keep up your spirits.”