As I was going back (not too bitterly disappointed) to my fifth floor on the Rue Taitbout, with my music in my pocket, I was accosted by a fair, tall young man, with a kindly, intelligent face, who said to me: "Yesterday I opened a music store near here in the Boulevard de la Madeleine. I know who you are and I am ready to publish anything you like." It was Georges Hartmann, my first publisher.
All I had to do was to take my hand from my pocket and give him the Poème d'Avril which had just received such a poor reception elsewhere.
It is true that I made nothing out of it, but how much I would have given—had I had it—to have it published. A few months later lovers of music were singing:
| Qu'on passe en aimant! |
| Que l'heure est donc brève |
As yet I had neither honor nor money, but I certainly had a good deal of encouragement.
Cholera was raging in Paris. I fell ill and the neighbors were afraid to come and see how I was. However, Ambroise Thomas learned of my dangerous illness and my helpless distress and visited me in my room accompanied by his doctor, the Emperor's physician. This brave and fatherly act on the part of my beloved master affected me so much that I fainted in bed. I must add that this illness was only fleeting and that I finished ten pieces for the piano for which Girod, the publisher, paid me two hundred francs. A louis a page! To that benevolent publisher I owed the first money I made from music.
The health of Paris improved.
On the eighth of October I was married in the little old church in the village of Avon near Fontainebleau.
My wife's brother and my new cousin, the eminent violinist Armingaud, the founder of the famous quartet, were my witnesses. However, there were others too. A flock of sparrows came in through a broken window and out-chirped one another so that we could scarcely hear the words of the good curé.
His words were a kindly homage to my new companion and encouragement for my still uncertain future.