poser,
conceived the idea of giving spring concerts at the Trocadero. Bruneau
came to see me and asked me if I had some unpublished work which I would
let him have. This was an excellent occasion for the presentation of my
_Hymne_, as it had been written with the Trocadero in mind. The
performance was decided on and Victor Hugo was invited to come and hear
it.

The performance was splendid--a large orchestra, the magnificent organ,
eight harps, and eight trumpets sounding their flourishes in the organ
loft, and a large chorus for the peroration of such splendor that it was
compared to the set pieces at the close of a display of fireworks. The
reception and ovation which the crowd gave the great poet, who rarely
appeared in public, was beyond description. The honeyed incense of the
organ, harps and trumpets was new to him and pleased his Olympian
nostrils.

"Dine with me to-night," he said to me. And from that day on, I often
dined with him informally with M. and Mme. Lockrou, Meurice, Vacquerie
and other close friends. The fare was delightful and unpretentious, and
the conversation was the same. The master sat at the head of the table,
with his grandson and granddaughter on either side, saying little but
always something apropos. Thanks to his vigor, his strong sonorous
voice, and his quiet good humor, he did not seem like an old man, but
rather like an ageless and immortal being, whom Time would never touch.
His presence was just Jove-like enough to inspire respect without
chilling his followers. These small gatherings, which I fully
appreciated, are among the most precious recollections of my life.

Time, alas, goes on, and that fine intellect, which had ever been
unclouded, began to give signs of aberration. One day he said to an
Italian delegation, "The French are Italians; the Italians are French.
French and Italians ought to go to Africa together and found the United
States of Europe."

The red rays of twilight announced the oncoming night.

Those who saw them will never forget his grandiose funeral ceremonies,
that casket under the Arc de Triomphe, covered with a veil of crape,
and that immense crowd which paid homage to the greatest lyric poet of
the century.

There was a committee to make musical preparations and I was a member.
The most extraordinary ideas were proposed. One man wanted to have the
_Marseillaise_ in a minor key. Another wanted violins, for "violins
produce an excellent effect in the ope