Once when Vivier had employed this unusual form of words to advertise the price of seats for a concert he was giving, a poor horn-player from the Pigalle sold everything he could and rushed off to the famous virtuoso’s house.

Arriving at 24 Rue Truffaut in Batignolles, he went in trembling all over, climbed to the second floor and knocked at a small door (the millionaire Vivier affects an appearance of great modesty). A bearded gentleman, with a cockerel on his left shoulder and a long snake in his right hand, came to open the door.

“Monsieur Vivier?”

“I am he, Monsieur.”

“I’m told you’re offering seats for the concert at twenty francs per ticket.” (Notice the flattery of “the concert”—as if there could be no other concert but Vivier’s in Paris). “I’m something of a horn-player myself, and not without talent, although I’ve never been invited to play at the Opéra. You’d make me, Monsieur, the happiest of men, Monsieur, by… .”

“Ah! You must have had an ambition to join the Spanish magistracy?”

“The magistracy? What do you mean?”

“Well, you said you wanted a place among the horns at the Opéra. Those who’ve achieved that honour have always ended up giving the same answer when asked if they were really at our Académie de Musique: ‘Oui, j’y suis cor et j’y dors.’ But enough philosophising.” He handed the poor devil a napoleon together with a concert ticket. “Here’s what you want!”

“You’re giving me twenty francs, Monsieur?”

“Didn’t you see the announcement in the papers? Wasn’t it quite clear? Didn’t you just say to me that you’d heard I was offering twenty francs per ticket? Well then, isn’t that what you’ve got? What are you fussing about? Perhaps twenty francs isn’t enough, in your opinion? Good God! A funny sort of horn-player you are!”

“But, Monsieur… .”

“Enough! You came here to rob me!” cried Vivier in a furious voice.

“Get out of here, or I’ll call the police and have you hauled off to the Bastille!”