Marsollier complied willingly with the wishes of his friend, and after a few days he brought him the text for the small opera Irato.  With the same alacrity did Mehul sit down to the task of composing, and when the work was done, Marsollier went to the committee of the comic opera to tell them he had just received from Italy a score whose music was so extraordinary that he was fully convinced of its success, and had therefore been to the trouble, notwithstanding the weakness and foolishness of the libretto, to translate the text into French.  The committee tried the score, was enchanted with the music, and was fully convinced of the brilliant success of the little opera, inasmuch as the strange and lively text was well adapted to excite the hilarity and the merriment of the public.  The first singers of the opera were rivals for the parts; all the newspapers published the pompous advertisement that in a short time would be performed at the Opera Comique a charming, entrancing opera, the maiden piece of a young Italian.

Finally its first performance was announced; the first consul declared that he and his wife would attend, and he invited Mehul, whom he liked to tease and worry, because he loved him from his heart, to attend the performance in his loge.

“It will undoubtedly be a mortification to you, my poor friend,” said he, laughing; “but perhaps when you hear this enchanting music, so different from that of the French, you will imitate it, and cease composing.”

Mehul replied with a bow; he then began to excuse himself from accompanying the first consul to the theatre; and it was only after Bonaparte and Josephine had pressed him very much, that he accepted the invitation, and went with them to their loge.

The opera began, and, immediately after the first melody, Bonaparte applauded and expressed his admiration.  There never had been any thing more charming—­never had the French written music with so much freshness, elegance, or so naturally.  Bonaparte continued his praise, and often-times repeated:  “It is certain there is nothing superior to Italian music.”

At last the opera ended amid a real storm of applause; and, with their enthusiasm at the highest pitch, the audience claimed to know the names of the poet and of the composer.  After a long pause the curtain rose and the registrar appeared; he made the three customary bows, and in a loud voice named Marsollier as the author and Mehul as the composer of the opera Irato.

The audience received this news with an unceasing storm of applause.  They, like the consul and the singers who had taken part in the opera, knew nothing of the mystification, so well had the secret been kept.

Josephine turned smilingly to Bonaparte, and with her own charming grace offered her hand to Mehul and thanked him for the twofold enjoyment he had that day prepared for her, by furnishing her his entrancing opera, and by having prepared a little defeat of Bonaparte, that traitor to his country, who dared prefer the Italian music to the French.