At last this sort of dumb frenzy spent itself and the musician in him awoke and he returned to his normal self.  A new plan began to take shape in his mind.  He would give a concert of his own works:  up to that time no French musician had done so.  Thus he would compel her to hear of him, although he had not yet met the object of his devoted admiration.

It was early spring of the year 1828, when he set to work with frantic energy, writing sixteen hours a day, in order to carry through the wonderful plan.  The concert, the result of so much labor, was given the last of May, with varying success.  But alas, Miss Smithson, adsorbed in her own affairs, had not even heard of the excitable young composer who had dared and risked so much to make a name that might attract her notice.

As Berlioz pere again stopped his allowance, Hector began to write for musical journals.  At first ignorant of the ways of journalism, his wild utterances were the despair of his friends; later his trenchant pen was both admired and feared.

For the third time, in June of this year, he entered the Conservatoire contest, and won a second prize, in this case a gold medal.  Two years later he won the coveted Prix de Rome, which gives the winner five years’ study, free of expense, in the Eternal City.

Before this honor was achieved, however, a new influence came into his life, which for a time overshadowed the passion for Shakespeare and Miss Smithson.  It happened on this wise.

Ferdinand Hiller, composer, pianist and one of Hector’s intimate friends, fell deeply in love with Marie Moke, a beautiful, talented girl who, later on, won considerable fame as a pianist.  She became interested in the young French composer, through hearing of his mental suffering from Hiller.  They were thrown together in a school where both gave lessons, she on the piano and he on the—­guitar!  Meeting so constantly, her dainty beauty won a warm place in the affections of the impressionable Hector.  She was but eighteen, while her admirer was twenty-five.

Hiller saw how things were going and behaved admirably.  He called it fate, wished the pair every happiness, and left for Frankfort.

Then came the Prix de Rome, which the poor boy had struggled so long to win, and now did not care so much for, as going to Italy would mean to leave Paris.  On August 23, 1830, he wrote to a friend: 

“I have gained the Prix de Rome.  It was awarded unanimously—­a thing never known before.  My sweet Ariel was dying of anxiety when I told her the news; her dainty wings were all ruffled, till I smoothed them with a word.  Even her mother, who does not look too favorably on our love, was touched to tears.

“On November 1, there is to be a concert at the Theater Italien.  I am asked to write an Overture and am going to take as subject Shakespeare’s Tempest; it will be quite a new style of thing.  My great concert, with the Symphonie Fantastique, will take place November 14, but I must have a theatrical success; Camille’s parents insist on that, as a condition of our marriage.  I hope I shall succeed.”