is in the result of his efforts; he has nothing of Wagner’s feeling for melodic beauty, nothing of his mastery of orchestral resource, and very little of his musical skill.  The melodies in ’Le Reve’—­save for an old French chanson, which is the gem of the work—­are for the most part arid and inexpressive.  Bruneau handles the orchestra like an amateur, and his attempts at polyphony are merely ridiculous.  Yet in spite of all this, the vocal portions of the work follow the inflections of the human voice so faithfully as to convey a feeling of sincerity.  Ugly and monotonous as much of ‘Le Reve’ is, the music is alive.  In its strange language it speaks with the accent of truth.  Here at any rate are none of the worn-out formulas which have done duty for so many generations.  In defence of Bruneau’s work it may be urged that his dreary and featureless orchestration, so wholly lacking in colour and relief, may convey to some minds the cool grey atmosphere of the quiet old Cathedral town, and that much of the harshness and discordance of his score is, at all events, in keeping with the iron tyranny of the Bishop.  ‘Le Reve’ at any rate was not a work to be passed over in silence:  it was intended to create discussion, and discussion it certainly created.

In ‘L’Attaque du Moulin’ (1893), another adaptation of Zola, Bruneau set himself a very different task.  The contrast between the placid Cathedral close and the bloody terrors of the Franco-Prussian war was of the most startling description.  ‘L’Attaque du Moulin’ opens with the festivities attendant upon the betrothal of Francoise, the miller’s daughter, to Dominique, a young Fleming, who has taken up his quarters in the village.  In the midst of the merry-making comes a drummer, who announces the declaration of war, and summons all the able-bodied men of the village to the frontier.  In the second act, the dogs of war are loose.  The French have been holding the mill against a detachment of Germans all day, but as night approaches they fall back upon the main body.  Dominique, who is a famous marksman, has been helping to defend his future father-in-law’s property.  Scarcely have the French retired when a division of Germans appears in the courtyard of the mill.  The captain notices that Dominique’s hands are black with powder, and finding that, though a foreigner, he has been fighting for the French in defiance of the rules of war, orders him to be shot.  By the help of Francoise, Dominique kills the sentinel who has been set to watch him, and escapes into the forest; but the German captain, suspecting that the miller and his daughter have had a hand in his escape, orders the old man to be shot in Dominique’s place.  Dominique creeps back in the grey dawn from the forest, and Francoise, torn by conflicting emotions, knows not whether she should wish him to stay and face his sentence or escape once more and leave her father to his fate.  The miller determines to sacrifice himself for his daughter’s lover, and by pretending that his sentence has been revoked induces Dominique to depart.  The old man is shot by the Germans just as the French rush in triumphant with Dominique at their head.