In Marseilles the concert was with orchestra. I arrived punctually for the rehearsal, but found only a handful of musicians. / “It doesn’t matter,” said Georges Sébastian, the conductor, calmly. “They will be here sometime.” I followed him onstage. He introduced me to the few men present and said, “Concerto, please.” Turning to me, he whispered, “We must pretend we are ready. They will hurry. It always works.” True enough, I saw musicians rush with their instruments from all sides to their places. They greeted each other and tuned their instruments. In fifteen minutes or so a good half of the orchestra had assembled. / "Concerto, please.” Sébastian tapped the stand and I heard something that was supposed to be the concerto. It was so funny that I couldn’t help laughing. Finally the orchestra was complete, with the concertmaster arriving last. He explained, “My barbershop was full. I couldn’t refuse to attend to my steady customers.” It was pitiful that those fine musicians could not earn a living exercising their profession. / That night the orchestra, as if wanting to make up for the rehearsal, played splendidly. After the performance we celebrated with bouillabaisse and good wine and we spoke of music and made ourselves believe that as long as there was music the musicians’ life was still the best.