ef-d'oeuvres of his Franco-German colleague. He would speak in
very appreciative terms of Meyerbeer, but he did not seem displeased
when disparaging remarks on the works of his rival were made.

One of the stories current concerning the two masters was this:--

Rossini was going along the Boulevards with a friend, when they met
Meyerbeer, and exchanged cordial greetings.

"And how is your health, my dear Maestro?" asks Meyerbeer.

"Shaky, cher maitre, very shaky. My digestion, you know, my poor head.
Alas! I'm afraid I am going down hill."

They pass on. "How could you tell such stories?" asks the friend; "you
were never in better health, and you talk of going down hill."

"Ah, well," answered Rossini, "to be sure--but why shouldn't I put it
that way? It gives him so much pleasure."

Another time the following short dialogue:--

"Eh bien, cher maitre, que faites-vous maintenant?"

Meyerbeer: "Je me corrige toujours."

Rossini: "Moi je m'efface."

Whatever may have been the relative merits of the two masters in matters
musical, it is certain that Rossini was acknowledged _facile princeps_
in all concerning the cuisine, and we used to listen with due respect to
his remarks on the mysteries of the culinary art.

Cremieux, the eminent lawyer, who was a guest at that dinner, had the
reputation of being the plainest man in France, a sort of missing link.
A story is told of him and Alexandre Dumas. The great novelist was
unmistakably of the mulatto type, and Cremieux, who must have been
addicted to making personal remarks, indiscreetly questioned him as to
his descent. "Was your father a mulatto?" he asked. "Yes," answered
Dumas, "my father was a mulatto, my grandfather a negro, and my
great-grandfather a monkey; my family began where yours ends."

Quick at repartee as Dumas was, he did not always have the last word, as
on an occasion when he received a letter from some playwright--I have
forgotten his name--offering to collaborate with him in the writing of
a play. "It is not usual," replied Dumas, "to yoke a horse and an ass
together." "Comment done!" retorted the other. "How dare you, sir,
insinuate that I am a horse?"

* * * * *

That Villa Rossini I visited ten years later under very different
circumstances. It was in May 1871, after the terrible events that marked
the reign of the Commune. I had not witnessed these, but had crossed
over from London shortly after the Versail