Auber's enjoyment of the society of
women--he was obliged to take off his hat in their presence, and he
hated being without that article of dress. He might have worn a
skull-cap at home, though there was no necessity for it, as far as his
hair was concerned, for up to the last he was far from bald; but he
wanted his hat. He composed with his hat on, he had his meals with his
hat on, and though he would have frequently preferred to take his seat
in the stalls or balcony of a theatre, he invariably had a box, and
generally one on the stage, in order to keep his hat on. He would often
stand for hours on the balcony of his house in the Rue Saint-Georges
with his hat on. "I never feel as much at home anywhere, not even in my
own apartment, as in the synagogue," he said one day. He frequently went
there for no earthly reason than because he could sit among a lot of
people with his hat on. In fact, those frequent visits, coupled with his
dislike to be bareheaded, made people wonder now and then whether Auber
was a Jew. The supposition always made Auber smile. "That would have
meant the genius of a Meyerbeer, a Mendelssohn, or a Halevy," he said.
"No, I have been lucky enough in my life, but such good fortune as that
never fell to my lot." For there was no man so willing--nay, anxious--to
acknowledge the merit of others as Auber. But Auber was not a Jew, and
his mania for keeping on his hat had nothing to do with his religion. It
was simply a mania, and nothing more. When, in January, '55, Gerard de
Nerval was found suspended from a lamp-post in the Rue de la
Vieille-Lanterne, he had his hat on his head; his friends, and even the
police, pretended to argue from this that he had not committed suicide,
but had been murdered. "A man who is going to hang himself does not keep
his hat on," they said. "Pourquoi pas, mon Dieu?" asked Auber, simply.
"If I were going to kill myself, I should certainly keep my hat on." In
short, it was the only thing about Auber which could not be explained.

Auber was exceedingly fond of society, and yet he was fond of solitude
also. Many a time his friends reported that, returning home late from a
party, they found Auber standing opposite his house in the Rue
Saint-Georges, with apparently no other object than to contemplate it
from below. After his return to Paris from London, whither he had been
sent by his father, in order to become conversant with English business
habits, he never left the capital a