I had been a pupil of the latter for a brief while at the Conservatoire. His pilgrimages to the land of the Celestials had not deprived his teaching of that hard, unamiable form which I suffered from with him, and I left his class in harmony a month after I joined it. I went into the class of Henri Reber of the Institute. He was a fine, exquisite musician, of the race of Eighteenth Century masters. All his music breathed forth pleasant memories.
One fine Friday evening in April, at half-past seven, the curtain rose at the Opéra-Comique. I was in the wings near my dear friend Jules Adenis. My heart throbbed with anxiety, seized by that mystery to which for the first tune I gave myself body and soul, as to an unknown God. To-day that seems a little exaggerated, rather childish.
The piece had just begun, when we heard a burst of laughter from the audience. "Listen, mon ami, what a splendid start," said Adenis. "The audience is amused."
The audience was indeed amused, but this is what happened. The scene opened in Brittany on a stormy, tempestuous night. Mlle. Girard had faced the audience and sung a prayer, when Capoul entered, speaking these words from the text:
"What a country! What a wilderness! Not a soul in sight!" when he saw Mlle. Girard's back and cried:
"At last.... There's a face!"
He had scarcely uttered this expression when the roars of laughter we had heard broke loose.
However, the piece went on without further incident.
They encored Mlle. Girard's song, Les filles de la Rochelle.
They applauded Capoul and gave the young debutante Heilbronn a great welcome.