opera of the great German maestro, Glück, was to be given. Its name was "Echo and Narcissus," and Marie Antoinette had ordered that it should be put on the stage with all conceivable splendour. The celebrated prima donna, Beaumênil, had undertaken the part of Echo, the whole court wished to be present at the performance, and all Paris was in a state of expectation. Every ticket had been sold long before at enormous prices, and not a place was to be had. In spite of this, though, no one was admitted to the dress rehearsal, for Maestro Glück had always insisted that the singers should not be disturbed in this most important rehearsal of all, and a private order of the queen to the régisseur of the Opera had converted the stipulation into a law. Thus, then, the house was empty-only the composer, Sacchini, with the wrinkled nose and youthfully sparkling eyes; the amiable composer of the "Savoyards," D'Alyarac; and the witty Beaumarchais, author of a piece called the "Marriage of Figaro," which was at the time being rehearsed, were seated in the pit. But even they did not dare a whisper when Glück's imposing form appeared at the director's desk. The musicians looked up to him reverentially, even the most reckless, for they feared the "German bear," and never played better than under his leadership. The singers took the greatest pains, too, and a gracious nod from the maestro was considered by them the greatest reward for their exertions. The pretty and witty Beaumênil alone ventured now and then to oppose him, and even sing according to her own idea in some passages, and she alone could subdue the tyrant. "Sing as you please, little obstinate," he would say, in such a case; "it all sounds deucedly pretty from your lips; I cannot quarrel with you about a couple of notes."

The part of Echo was written for her, and suited her admirably, and Glück in his heart was enchanted with his prima donna. She had just sung her first aria, the ritornelle was slowly fading away, the maestro was smiling, and Beaumarchais nodding in delight to Sacchini, who in his enthusiasm was blowing a kiss to the singer, when all at once a voice trembling with passion was heard from a side-box :

"Mademoiselle Marion, you must not, at such a moment, chatter with that long-legged satyr."

All eyes were turned in speechless amazement to the speaker, the musicians ceased playing, the bâton fell from Glück's hand, and the few words produced an indescribable effect. The falling in of the roof, a revolution in the street, musket-shots, the appearance of the queen herself, would hardly have produced such an effect as the sound of a human voice while Glück was directing. Such a thing had never been heard before!

All gazed in horror at the youthful criminal in his modest, almost poor garb, who at first did not notice that he had become the object of such universal attention. His handsome face was glowing with anger, and his dark eyes were fixed on a couple whose fairer half rapidly retreated behind a side-scene.

At this moment Glück rose in all his majesty. The storm was rolling onward.

"Who is the impudent fellow," he shouted, "who dares to disturb me in such a way

The first note of his thundering voice had almost the effect of an

electric shock. The young man started and fell back, and, unable to utter a syllable, looked imploringly at the great maestro. At this moment Mademoiselle Beaumênil walked up to Glück, and laying her clasped hands (very beautiful hands they were) on his arm, said, in her sweet voice: "Be merciful to this child! Do you not see that he is a musician ? I wager that he is poor, and only ventured so much in order to hear an opera of the great Glück."

Who could have resisted such words, accompanied by so seductive a glance? But they gave another man, too, a sudden and leonine courage. With one bound the young sinner leaped on to the stage, and with a glance of gratitude at the lovely singer he fell on one knee before the maestro, and exclaimed "Forgiveness !"

" Do you not know that it is strictly forbidden to come to a rehearsal ?” Glück asked, with the frown of a Jupiter.

"I knew it, else I should not have missed a single rehearsal of 'L'Echo and Narcissus.' I will endure any punishment you please to inflict on me, for my heart's desire has been fulfilled."

Glück looked down kindly at the kneeling youth. "Get up, and tell me first who you are, and why you became so angry?"

"I wish to be a composer. My name is Etienne Henri Mehul. I was sent to Paris from my town of Givet; my teacher-the organist of St. Anne's Church-said: 'There you must become a great man, if there is really anything in you. Run about the streets with open eyes and ears, and listen whenever there is anything to hear.' And I might have run about for a year, and not have heard so much as I have done in the one hour, when Glück was wielding the bâton."

"Who teaches you here?"

"A kind and good instructor, Henry Edelmann, the pianoforteplayer."

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But you still owe me one answer: reflect, Henri Mehul."

Why I became so angry? Because choristers ought not to chatter together during your divine music," the young man replied; but he looked down while uttering the words, and his cheeks grew red.

"That is brave of you. Where are the guilty parties?"

"Oh! I did not notice them so attentively. I should not be able to find them," little Etienne stammered, staring at the side-scene, behind which Marion had disappeared.

"You are a cunning fellow, but I trust a good musician. But we will look into that presently; for the present you can return to your seat, and listen quietly."

With what delight did Mehul return to his little box, and devour the music which he now really heard! What happiness had befallen him! Was he really awake! He bit his little finger several times, to make sure that he was not suffering from the delusions of a dream. And Marion was now standing half a mile away from the chorus-singer, and did not dare raise her eyes, the little coquette. The great maestro, however, whom all Paris admired, the ex-teacher of the lovely French queen, when she sported as a happy child in the palace of Vienna, Chevalier Glück, the victor of Piccini, whose name had even reached Givet, had spoken kindly to him. Little Etienne drew himself up in his pride. But would he have fared so well had Mademoiselle Beaumênil not been

present? Certainly not. Had the maestro suspected that it was not his music, but Marion's roguish eyes which led him to take this daring step, he would not be sitting here now. Through gratitude he did not take his eyes off his preserver, and the lady rewarded him with one of her sweetest smiles. When he heard her sing, however, he forgot even little Marion: the notes fell like pearls from her lips, and he had a murmur of silver bells in his ears.

Little Etienne was quite intoxicated by all he saw and heard, and had difficulty in collecting himself so as to answer the maestro without confusion, when he was called at the end of the rehearsal and asked all sorts of questions. Beaumarchais was present, and so were Sacchini and D'Alyarac, with the melancholy eyes. But Mademoiselle Beaumênil also stood by the maestro's side, and when little Etienne looked into her smiling face he became quite bold. All the singers and choristers had remained at a respectful distance, in order to hear the supposed punishment of the culprit; and even little Marion had drawn as close as possible, in order to catch a word or two, but her whole face was suffused by a ruddy tinge, and her eyes were moist with tears. "If anything occurred to Etienne, she alone was to blame for it." This she said to herself, and silently vowed to her patron saint, Saint Anne, a large yellow wax candle, if she would help the poor fellow through. Ah! she promised herself even more-in spite of her jealousy of Desirée Edelmann-little Etienne should really have a kiss, that he should.

After a lengthened conversation, Glück said:

"You will come home with me, so that I may thoroughly inquire whether there is the making a good musician in you; and Beaumarchais, D'Alyarac, and Sacchini will accompany us, and sit in judgment. Let us go, gentlemen!”

At this moment the eyes of Etienne and his little friend met with a long glance.

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May I come after you in a few minutes ?" the young man stammered. "9 "I should like-I must

"He wishes to see his foster-sister home first," Mademoiselle Beaumênil whispered. "The girl is very short-sighted, and limps a little. He will be with you in half an hour, I will answer for him."

"How easily a female heart can be engrossed by a pair of pretty eyes!" Glück said, with a smile. "Let him follow me, then. I will wait an hour for him."

With these words he turned away, and walked like a king, followed by his vassals, from the theatre.

"What will you give me for my help, you little rascal ?" Mademoiselle Beaumênil said, teasingly. "I saw the glances which flew to the little singing-girl. You did not creep in here for the sake of the maestro's

opera.

Oh, be merciful, fairest of women! Do not betray me; I am so happy now!"

"Once more, what will you give me for my help, and my silence?" "I will compose an opera for you."

The prima donna burst into a loud laugh.

"Good! I accept your promise. You must redeem it within three years, at the latest. You see how merciful I am. But woe on you if

you do not keep your word. Fear the anger of a woman, Etienne Mehul of Givet!"

It was about half an hour ere little Etienne had liberated himself from Marion. She was too seductive in her tears of repentance and jealousy, and she had really given him the first kiss on the last stair, with the room door half open in her hand. The blind aunt certainly scolded her for keeping her poor neighbour so long in the draught for merely a little gossip. After the little musician had given her a solemn promise never again to play at battledore with Desirée Edelmann unless she was present, and she had made an arrangement to be introduced to her the next morning as his foster-sister, little Etienne dashed down the stairs and along the street to the maestro's house.

Candles were lit in the musician's large room. D'Alyarac had just played some of his charming melodies, and had risen from the spinet. Glück then led his young protégé to the open instrument. "Play whatever comes into your head and fingers," he said.

And when Etienne had done this, and repeated the music he had heard that day correctly and skilfully, the maestro laid music before him covered with perfect hieroglyphics, so that at the first glance Etienne felt quite dizzy. But he got through it capitally-so capitally, that Glück tapped him on the shoulder, with the words:

"If signs do not deceive me, a famous musician will be made in you. You can come to me whenever you like so long as I am in Paris. I will help you on as far as I can, Etienne Mehul."

"And you can come to me too, for I am a musician, and love my art," said D'Alyarac, "and what I can I will gladly teach you."

"" And you can visit me, too, and I will give you an order when the lazy performers produce my Marriage of Figaro; and, to show you that I can play an instrument, just sit down in that corner and listen attentively."

And while Etienne proceeded to the indicated corner, and the others seated themselves in the large chairs, which seemed to be keeping guard along the wall, Sacchini whispered to the young man :

"Do not forget the composer of another Iphigenia.' When you have an hour at liberty, you will be welcome to him."

A large harp stood in a corner with a stool in front of it—a sign that the instrument was often used. Beaumarchais sat down to it, and when Etienne saw him so sitting, with his noble forehead and fiery eyes slightly bent down, he was forced to think of King David playing the harp before Saul. And his fingers contrived to draw consoling sounds from the strings for more than one dark spirit.

Etienne forgot his hunger and thirst-everything, everything—even Marion's kiss; but one thing he remembered, that he, the boy from Givet, was seated in the room of Chevalier Glück, and, according to the maestro's asseverance, could sit there every day if he liked.

But Beaumarchais played for a long, long time, and, when he at length ceased, Glück pressed his hands in his usual tender way, while the two other musicians praised the beauty of his performance. But not But not a sound was heard from the young guest, and, when a light was thrown into his dark corner, the boy was found lying in a fainting-fit. His head had fallen back, his eyes were closed, his delicate lips, slightly parted, allowed a glimpse of his pearly teeth.

"The child is overpowered by my performance-a second infallible

sign that he will become a fine musician," said Beaumarchais with satisfaction, though without a sign of sympathy; "he has a very susceptible temperament."

"We will call old Margot, who will bring the boy round," said Glück. "I had better carry him to her room," remarked the composer of the Savoyards." He raised the light burden in his arms, and soon after returned with the nurse. "Margot has persuaded him to open his eyesbut, as you know, she is self-willed, has refused any assistance in her charitable task, and sent me off. The boy is sitting in her easy-chair." Yes, Etienne Mehul of Givet had really opened his large fine eyes, and uttered a heavy sigh.

"Poor child!" the old woman murmured, looking at him compassionately.

Etienne passed his hand over his forehead, looked timidly around, then seized Margot's rugged hand, and, pressing it to his lips, respectfully whispered:

"Madame, I am going to entrust a secret to you, for I know you will keep it; I am dying of hunger. Give me a mouthful of bread and a cup of wine-but never must a living soul suspect that it was aught but Beaumarchais's harp-playing which robbed me of consciousness."

Oh! how the good old dame pitied the child-the prettiest and bestbred lad in France, she called him-and how quickly she produced the best things from her larder and cellar.

"How often have I felt vexed at a spoiled pasty and a dish let to get cold, because they would never come to an end with their playing and scoring. Eat, eat, and regain your strength, my darling child."

And little Etienne soon recovered, thanks to the cold fowl, and fruitpie, and strengthening wine which Margot brought him. In the mean while, she went like a sensible woman to her master and told him:

"The little fellow will be here soon; his feelings were too affected by all the music. I must let him rest awhile; but then he will be like a fish in the water."

When Etienne was at length ready, he said, merrily: "Madame, I owe you my life, ask me for what you like, and if I have it, it is

yours.

"Well, then, give me a son's kiss, dear child," the housekeeper said, laughingly, "and whenever you come here, call in at my room, and I will look after you as your own mother would do. For you seem to me, thanks to the saints, as if you would think of other things than my master and his friends do."

"You are right, madame," Etienne answered, roguishly; kissed the good dame while thinking of Marion, and then appeared before his delighted patrons really as merry as a fish in the water."

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On the next day Etienne led the little chorister to the house of his teacher, and where would a pair of eyes and a face like Marion's be received with other than friendliness? She felt a little ashamed, though, when Desirée, her feared rival, tripped in, a pretty harmless child of twelve years of age, who flew into her arms fondly. Still she played with them at battledore for the future, for the charming Desirée grew every day older, and Etienne, unhappily, daily more dangerous—at least Marion thought so.

Still the play hours became gradually rarer, for music under the teaching of such celebrated instructors entirely occupied Etienne Mehul of