and popularity no longer gave the poet any pleasure at all.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, his face darkening. ' Would you excuse
us for a minute? I should like a word or two with my friend.'
'Oh, with pleasure! ' exclaimed the stranger. ' It's so delightful
sitting here under the trees and I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere, as it
happens.'
'Look here, Misha,' whispered the poet when he had drawn
piercing stare.
The two men were embarrassed. ' Hell, he overheard us . . . ' thought
Berlioz, indicating with a polite gesture that there was no need for this
show of documents. Whilst the stranger was offering them to the editor, the
poet managed to catch sight of the visiting card. On it in foreign lettering
was the word ' Professor ' and the initial letter of a surname which
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