ce. It was alluring in its timbre and
irresistible in its attractiveness, just as he was himself. He was no
"near musician." He loved music passionately, and he was unwilling to
sing as an amateur. He took lessons from Romain Bussine at the
Conservatoire. He sang to perfection the difficult arias of Mozart's
_Don Juan_. He also liked to declaim the magnificent recitative of
Pilgrimage in the third act of _Tannhauser_.

As we were friendly and liked the same things, the sympathy which
brought us together was quite natural. At the beginning of the war in
1870 I wrote _Les Melodies Persanes_ and Regnault was their first
interpreter. _Sabre en main_ is dedicated to him. But his great success
was _Le Cimitiere_. Who would have thought as he sang:

"To-day the roses,
To-morrow the cypress!"

that the prophecy would be realized so soon?

Some imbeciles have written that the loss of Regnault was not to be
regretted; that he had said all he had to say. In reality he had given
only the prologue of the great poem which he was working out in his
brain. He had already ordered canvasses for great compositions which,
without a doubt, would have been among the glories of French art.

I saw him for the last time during the siege. He was just starting for
drill with his rifle in his hand. One of the four watercolors which were
his last work, stood uncompleted on his easel. There was a shapeless
spot at the bottom. He held a handkerchief in his free hand. He
moistened this from time to time with saliva and kept tapping away on
the spot on the picture. To my great astonishment, almost to my fright,
I saw roughed out and finished the head of a lion.

A few days afterwards came Buzenval!

When the question of publishing Henri Regnault's letters came up, some
phrases referring to me and ranking me above my rivals were found in
them. The editor of the letter got into communication with me, read me
the phrases, and announced that they were to be suppressed, because they
might displease the other musicians.

I knew who the other musicians were, and whose puppet the editor was. It
would have been possible, it seems to me, without hurting anyone, to
include the exaggerated praise, which, coming from a painter, had no
weight, and which would have proved nothing except the great friendship
which inspired it. I have always regretted that the public did not learn
of the sentiments with which the great artist, whom I loved so much,
ho