In November 1850, Paris was treated to a surprising musical discovery: a tender little chorus by Pierre Ducré, a seventeenth-century chapel master at the Sainte-Chapelle. Ducré had been composing in 1679 and then disappeared without a trace from the historical record.
Fortunately, Hector Berlioz had found his music, supposedly in a walled-up cupboard at the Sainte-Chapelle, during renovations. Written on old parchment, in notation so difficult that deciphering it had been quite a chore.The singers adored the piece. The critics praised it. One reviewer lamented the fate of this forgotten genius, neglected for nearly two centuries.
The following Sunday, a sadly unidentified Parisian lady told Berlioz’s friend Joseph-Louis Duc that the chorus was exquisite, and that Berlioz himself could never write anything so beautiful.
Right up to this point, this sounds kind of like one of Maestro Barrese’s rediscoveries: Amleto, Ali Baba, Matilde…
There was, however, a small problem: Unlike Faccio, Bottesini, and Coccia, Pierre Ducré did not exist.
The affaire had begun at a party where everyone was playing cards except Berlioz. Bored, he wrote a little organ piece at Duc’s suggestion. It turned into The Shepherds’ Farewell, depicting the Holy Family’s departure for Egypt.
Berlioz offered to credit Duc, who pointed out that he had no idea how to compose. So Berlioz invented a composer whose name conveniently incorporated his friend’s.
When Duc told the lady who had praised Ducré that she had actually been praising Berlioz, she called the composer impertinent. Berlioz was unrepentant.
By 1854, the little prank had expanded into L’enfance du Christ. Hear it live this month with the Symphonic Chorus on November 15, 2026 at 2pm.
