Golconda, after an
eighteenth-century tale.

"I am strewing it profusely with melodies," said Theophile; "my music
comes from my heart. My heart is an inexhaustible source of melody.
Unfortunately nowadays people like recondite arrangements, difficult
scoring. They accuse me of being too fluid, too limpid, of not imparting
enough colour to my style, not aiming at stronger effects in harmony and
more vigorous contrasts. Harmony, harmony!... No doubt it has given its
merits, but it does not appeal to the heart. It is melody which carries
us away and ravishes us and brings smiles and tears to our eyes." At
these words he smiled and wept to himself. Then he continued with
emotion:

"I am a fountain of melody. But the orchestration! there's the rub! In
Paradise, you know, Arcade, in the matter of instruments, we only
possess the harp, the psaltery, and the hydraulic organ."

Arcade was only listening to him with half an ear. He was meditating
plans which filled his soul and swelled his heart.

"Do you know any angels in revolt?" he asked his companion. "As for me,
I know only one, Prince Istar, with whom I have exchanged a few letters
and who offered to share his attic with me while I was finding a lodging
in this town, where I believe rents are very high."

Of angels in revolt Theophile knew none. When he met a fallen spirit who
had formerly been one of his comrades he shook him by the hand, for he
was a faithful friend. Sometimes he saw Prince Istar. But he avoided
all those bad angels who shocked him by the violence of their opinions
and whose conversations plagued him to death.

"Then you don't approve of me?" asked the impulsive Arcade.

"Friend, I neither approve of you nor blame you. I understand nothing of
the ideas which trouble you. Neither do I think it good for an artist to
concern himself with politics. One has quite sufficient to occupy
oneself with one's art."

He loved his profession, and had hopes of "arriving" one day, but
theatrical ways disgusted him. The only chance he saw of having his
piece played was to take one or two--perhaps three--collaborators, who,
without having done any work, would sign their names and share the
profits. Soon Bouchotte would fail to find engagements. When she offered
her services in some small hall the manager began by asking her how many
shares she was taking in the business. Such customs, thought Theophile,
were deplorable.

CHAPTER XIII

WHEREIN WE H