Volume 11 — XIII AN AMATEUR CONCERT

In Paris there are parties for all tastes, all social ranks, all professions, all shades of opinion; in a word, for all classes.

A young man with tact and breeding may go everywhere; nothing is so easy as to obtain admission to the enormous parties, the gorgeous fêtes and balls, which are so popular that people go thither in crowds and do not see one another. The master and mistress of the house do not know the names of half the men who crowd their salons. In the best society it is customary for an invited guest to introduce whomsoever he may choose, without asking permission. The newcomer salutes the host and his wife; they exchange the conventional phrases, smiling at each other most amicably; that is all that is necessary; and one may then proceed to play cards, dance, and regale one’s self, without paying any further attention to the master of the house.

It is not so easy to obtain admission to what are called bourgeois parties. There the host, being a little more particular than the banker or marquis of the Chaussée d’Antin, likes to know the people who come to his house. When one young man introduces another to him, he inquires his name, his profession, and his character; indeed, there are some who carry their absurd prejudices so far as to turn a cold shoulder to young men whose too free and easy manners do not please them. But this extreme severity of morals is found only in the Marais or in the heart of Faubourg Saint-Germain.

Between the first society and the bourgeoisie, between etiquette and license, there are the delightful circles, distinguished by amiable freedom of manner, artless gayety, and a pleasant intimacy; these are generally to be found among artists. The arts go hand in hand; genuine talents are not jealous of one another; they esteem, seek out, and appreciate one another; that is why we find among them wit without malice, jesting without bitterness, rivalry without envy, merit without arrogance, and wealth without display.

Next come the strange, abnormal parties, which are made up from all the others. The people who give them do not know how to receive company; but they insist upon having company all the time, because it is good form to give soirées, and in these days no one is willing to lag behind his neighbor. For my part, I am in the habit of going only where I am invited by the host himself; I do not like to be introduced by another guest, unless it be at one of those crushes to which one goes as one would go to the theatre; and one may stay away from a second one without being taxed with discourtesy, because there is no danger of having been noticed at the first.

The function of Monsieur and Madame Vauvert may be placed in the last category. The master of the house fancied that he was a musician, but he had never in his life been able to beat a measure in three time, or to observe a minim rest or a crotchet rest, although he used his feet, his head, and his hands. He thrummed a little on the guitar; and when he had succeeded in accompanying some little ballad, without falling in with a minim rest or a crotchet one on the way, he was the happiest of men. Add to this an enduring passion for the fair sex, to which he paid assiduous court, despite his wife, a nose always smeared with snuff, soiled clothes and frills, strong breath and shifty eyes, a figure of medium height and a body that was always trembling, and you will have an idea of Monsieur Vauvert, who was a very good fellow in spite of his trifling faults, and whose greatest crime was not to be virtuous and orderly at forty-five. Gayety is of all ages, but libertinage is a different matter.

And I trust that at forty I shall be as virtuous as I now am the opposite. But let us come to Madame Vauvert.

She must once have been good-looking; the trouble was that she insisted upon continuing to be so. Her complexion was still fresh and ruddy, even when she was ill; which tempted unkind tongues to say that she made it herself. She was not familiar with the manners of good society, but by way of compensation she had a vast deal of curiosity and an extraordinary talent for setting people by the ears, while seeming never to speak ill of anyone; she also had a very pronounced penchant for good-looking youths and for chocolate.

Still, Madame Vauvert’s parties were very entertaining, because there was not the slightest restraint, everyone did what he chose, and one was certain of meeting a lot of original people and of seeing some new faces at every party. Most of those who appeared there simply passed on and off, as in a magic lantern; those whose only aim was to be amused went again and again. I was one of the latter; so Vauvert had come to call me his dear friend, while his charming spouse always greeted me with a most gracious little smile.

As Monsieur Vauvert was only a government clerk, he did not live on the first floor; but on his reception evenings he caused candle ends to be placed along the staircase, so that the artists and amateurs might not break their noses before reaching the third floor above the entresol. He had no servant, but he had a nephew some fourteen or fifteen years old, who was junior clerk to a notary; a sly, mischievous youngster, whom his dear uncle tried to make useful on his festal days, which displeased the young man, who on those occasions always returned home later than usual from the notary’s, in order not to be at the service of his uncle and aunt. It was nearly ten o’clock when I arrived at Monsieur Vauvert’s; the company rarely assembled before that hour, for the petty bourgeois try to mimic the nobility, and think it good form to arrive very late at a party. Musicians, whether amateurs or professionals, love to keep people waiting; and I believe that, in due time, evening parties will not begin until the next morning.

I rang. The door was opened by Madame Vauvert; whence I concluded that the young nephew had not yet returned.

“Ah! here you are, my little Dorsan; it’s very good of you to come; we shall have a lot of people to-night.”

“You will have? Do you mean to say that your guests haven’t arrived yet?”

“Some of them are late; but it’s early yet.”

“Not very.”

“We have a tall young lady from the Conservatoire, who has a magnificent voice.”

“The deuce!”

“And a lady who plays the ‘cello.”

“Great heaven! why, here it’s as it is at Nicolet’s: always worse and worse!”

“Ha! ha! what a funny fellow!”

“What music have you had already?”

“Nothing yet.”

“What! nothing? and it’s ten o’clock! For whom are you waiting to begin your concert?”

“Little Martin hasn’t come yet, to play the piano accompaniments.”

“Isn’t his sister here?”

“Yes, but she won’t play to-night; she’s sick; she’s having one of her nervous attacks.”

“Ah, yes! that’s quite natural. But where’s your husband?”

“He’s gone out to get a ‘cello part and to borrow a second violin, so that we can have a quartette.”

“It seems to me that it would have been well to set about it a little sooner.”

“Why, the poor man’s been running his legs off ever since dinner. He had to fetch Madame Rosemonde and her daughter, then go to the musical instrument maker’s for a double bass, then send for Mademoiselle Luquet’s harp, then go to make sure that Monsieur Crachini could come; in fact, there’s no end to what he’s had to do!”

“I can see that he has had his hands full.”

“And that little rascal of a Friquet doesn’t come home! I hope his uncle will give him a good trouncing to-night. But come in, my dear fellow.”

Our conversation was held in a narrow passage leading on one side to the dining room, which did duty as bedroom and dressing room, and on the other to the salon. I entered this last-named apartment, where the regular habitués and the newcomers were assembled. Everyone was wondering what the host and hostess could be doing, that no one had seen them; everyone was calling for them, and asking why the music could not begin; but not one of the singers was willing to sing first, and the instrumentalists seemed no better disposed.

“It seems to me that things aren’t likely to go very well to-night,” said a short, pockmarked man, who waddled up to me, smiling maliciously, whose nose was hidden by his bulging cheeks, and whose eyes one sought in vain behind his spectacles. “Almost ten o’clock, and nothing doing; you must agree that it’s disrespectful to the company! Poor Vauvert! passing his evening scouring the neighborhood for instruments and scores! It’s amusing enough! There are not two houses like this in Paris.”

“That is just why it’s so priceless. But aren’t you going to sing to-night?”

“Yes; I’ve brought my song from Jean de Paris; it’s called the Princesse de Navarre.”

“I seem to remember that you sang that to us at the last reception.”

“So I did; but I haven’t had time to learn anything else; and then, you know, it’s such a fine thing!—

Gad! how pretty it is!”

“Yes, when Martin sings it, it’s delightful. Shall we have much singing to-night?”

“Oh! we shall have some sport. Raymond is to sing the aria from Joconde; that tall girl yonder is to sing the inevitable song from Montano et Stéphanie; the pupil from the Conservatoire has brought a song, too; and Monsieur Crachini will obligingly deafen us with a romanza or two. Then Chamonin and his friend are to make an attempt at a duo from the Bouffes. That’s enough, I hope! God grant that Gripaille doesn’t take his guitar to accompany us! if he does, we are lost.”

As the chubby-faced little man finished speaking, Gripaille accosted him, and was greeted with:

“Well, my dear Gripaille, aren’t we to have the pleasure of hearing you? Come, bring out your guitar; these ladies are dying for some of your chords.”

Gripaille, who considered himself the first guitarist in Paris, replied, casting a seductive leer upon the ladies who surrounded us:

“What the devil do you expect me to sing you? I don’t know anything! I’ve got a cold, too; and then, Vauvert’s guitar is such a wretched instrument! a regular chestnut stove! it’s impossible to play on it.”

“With such talent as yours, one can play on anything,” observed a little old woman, throwing herself back in her chair and clasping her hands ecstatically, while tears of pleasure started from her eyes. “Mon Dieu! what blissful moments I owe to you! Music produces such an effect on me—such an effect! you can’t form any idea of it; my nerves are so sensitive, I abandon myself so utterly to the melody! Take your guitar, enchanter! take it and make me dream! You remind me of a handsome traveller who played the guitar under my windows when I was young!”

The chubby-faced gentleman and I turned away, to avoid laughing in the face of the old woman, from whom Gripaille had great difficulty in extricating himself. Old age is certainly most worthy of respect; but it is hard to keep a serious face before such old idiots, who fall into a trance during a ballad or an adagio.

I saw the old man who usually played the ‘cello part look at his watch, and heard him mutter between his teeth:

“This is very disagreeable! I must be at home at eleven o’clock, and we are wasting all this time doing nothing; and I’ve been here since seven! They were laughing at me when they told me that they were going to begin early, and that there would be a full quartette here; but they won’t catch me again.”

At last Monsieur Vauvert appeared, panting, almost breathless, drenched with perspiration, and bending beneath the burden of a tenor violin and several portfolios of music.

“Here I am! here I am!” he exclaimed, bustling into the room with an air of great bewilderment; “I’ve had hard work collecting all the parts, but I’ve succeeded at last.”

“You must have been diverting yourself between whiles,” said Madame Vauvert, pursing her lips.

“Oh, yes! parbleu! that’s very likely; diverting myself, indeed! I’m bathed in perspiration!—You can begin the quartette, messieurs.”

“Let’s begin, let’s begin!” said Monsieur Pattier, the ‘cello player; “we have very little time.—But have you brought my score?”

“Yes, yes! there it is on the stand.”

“Come, messieurs, let’s tune up.”

The amateurs who formed the quartette tried to bring their instruments in tune with one another. Meanwhile, the guests took their places to listen; sat down when they could find chairs. The ladies were already yawning; the bare announcement of a quartette gave them the vapors; to distract their thoughts, they chatted with the men who stood behind their chairs. They whispered and laughed and made fun of everybody, especially of the performers; the moment when music is being performed is always selected by the listeners to make the most noise.

At last the intrepid amateurs were in tune and took their places at their desks. The old ‘cello player had put his little shade of green paper round his candle, so that the light should not hurt his eyes; the tenor violinist had put on his spectacles; the second violin put an ounce of rosin on his bow; and the first violin adjusted his cravat so that his instrument should not rumple his collar.

All these preliminaries being completed,—during which Vauvert tried to bring the assemblage to order by many a prolonged hush!—the first violin raised his bow and stamped on the floor, glancing from one to another of his colleagues.

“Are we ready?” he said at last, with a determined air.

“Oh! I’ve been ready two hours!” retorted Monsieur Pattier, with an angry shrug.

“One moment, messieurs,” said the second violin; “my first string is loose; it’s a new string; I must tighten it.”

The tenor seized the opportunity to play over a passage that seemed rather difficult, and the ‘cellist consoled himself with a pinch of snuff.

“Now I’m ready,” said the second violin.

“That’s very fortunate.—Attention, messieurs, if you please; we will play the allegro rather slowly, and the adagio somewhat quickly; that produces a better effect.”

“As you please; it’s your place to beat time.”

The signal was given; the first violin started, and the others straggled after, as usual. Although I paid little attention to the quartette, it seemed to me to be even worse than ordinarily.

“The villains have sworn to flay us alive!” said one of my neighbors.

“That isn’t right! that isn’t right!” cried the first violin, stopping short.

“I don’t see why it didn’t go well enough,” observed the tenor.

“No, no! there was something that was all wrong.”

“Where was it?”

“Where? I can’t say exactly.”

“Well, I didn’t miss a note,” said the second violin.

“Nor I.”

“Nor I.”

“Come, messieurs, let us begin again.”

“All right, but see that you beat time properly.”

“I should say that I beat time loud enough.”

“To be sure you do,” said Madame Vauvert; “and the person who lives underneath said she would complain to the landlord.”

They began to play again; but it went no better, although the first violin writhed and gesticulated like one possessed; the company began to laugh, and the performers stopped.

“It certainly doesn’t go right,” said Monsieur Longuet, the first violin and conductor. “There must be mistakes somewhere; let me see the ‘cello score. What does this mean? you’re playing in B flat and we in D! Parbleu! I’m not surprised.”

“I’m playing just what you told me to,” rejoined old Pattier, scarlet with anger; “the first quartette in the first portfolio.”

“True; how the devil does it happen? Let’s look at the title. What do I see? Mozart’s quartette! and we are playing one of Pleyel’s! Ha! ha! that’s a good one!”

Everybody laughed at the episode; Monsieur Pattier alone was furious over the mistake, for which Vauvert was responsible, and which resulted in preventing the performance of the quartette. He rushed up to the master of the house, who had just seated himself in a corner of the salon beside a young brunette on whom he was bestowing meaning glances.

“How’s this, Monsieur Vauvert? You tell me that you have brought the score that was missing, and you give me the bass of a Mozart quartette when we are to play one of Pleyel’s!”

“I thought I heard you mention Mozart.”

“You thought! a man doesn’t make such mistakes as that!”

“Well! I’ll go and change it.”

“No, no, it’s no use; almost eleven o’clock; a pretty time to go out after music! I shan’t forget this trick.”

Père Pattier went away, muttering savagely; nobody paid any attention to him. Madame Vauvert scolded her husband for his blunder, and the company congratulated themselves on their escape from the quartette; while the tenor, who was determined not to be squelched, persisted in trying the brilliant passages of his part. Neighbor Raymond had just arrived, with his favorite piece under his arm. I noticed several new faces, and I was looking about for Madame Bertin and her daughters, who seldom came to Monsieur Vauvert’s, whose decidedly mixed society was ill suited to well-bred young ladies, when I heard the confused murmur that announces the arrival of a new personage.

I looked toward the door of the salon. A very stylishly dressed lady was being escorted into the room by Vauvert, on whose arm she leaned, and whose soiled linen, snuffy nose, and awkward manner were in striking contrast to the grace, the refinement, and the elegant manners of the lady, for whom he tried to find a seat in his salon, where vacant chairs were as scarce as at Tivoli. I spied one by the fireplace, upon which a huge cat lay asleep; I threw the cat to the floor, and presented the chair to the newcomer, who thanked me as she accepted it. Thereupon I examined her more closely, and recognized the lady whom I had seen at the theatre two nights before, and whose carriage I had made a vain attempt to follow. I was fully convinced that it was she when I saw in the doorway the man who accompanied her on that occasion.

Decidedly that Saturday evening was destined to mark an epoch in my life; for chance had thrown in my way all the persons who had then attracted my attention. I was Nicette’s friend, I hoped to be Caroline’s lover, and as for this other lady, whose name I did not know as yet, I was ready to bet that we should become better acquainted.

Neighbor Raymond, who lost no time when he hoped to win applause, had already approached the piano and was looking about for someone to accompany him. But Monsieur Gripaille, seeing that no one asked him to sing, or paid any attention to him, ran and seized the guitar, seated himself in the centre of the salon, and prepared to begin. Singing is always the most popular part of a concert, especially a concert of amateurs, where those who play upon any instrument are rarely good enough players or good enough musicians to give pleasure to their audience. A quartette entertains none but those who take part in it; a sonata on the piano makes people yawn; airs with variations for the harp are always twice too long, and pieces for the guitar always fall flat after other instruments. Only for singing, therefore, does the audience at such affairs care to cease its conversation; a pleasant voice never wearies the attention or the ears.

But Monsieur Gripaille had not a pleasant voice—far from it; it was a continual medley of falsetto, shrill notes, and transitions of an octave, the whole accompanied by the thrumming of his thumb on the bass chord of the guitar, while he shook his head from side to side to add to his personal charms. However, the airs he sang were sometimes tuneful, the words amusing, and his performance diverted the company for a moment. But as he always sang the same things, we knew them by heart; and when he once had the guitar in his hands, it was impossible to make him put it down; after the ballad came a rondeau, after the rondeau a comic song, after the comic song another ballad, and so on. I was not bored, because I was talking with the new arrival, who seemed vastly astonished at all that she saw, and very glad to find me there; for she recognized me, and I saw that my presence was not disagreeable to her.

But soon I heard neighbor Raymond and the man with spectacles objurgating Gripaille because he did not stop singing.

“It’s horrible! it’s murderous! it’s enough to put you to sleep!” said Raymond; “he’ll never stop!”

“Oh! when he once has his guitar, we are lost! there’s nothing to do but let him sing.”

“And he doesn’t want anyone to make a sound, either; not even to speak. See! he’s glancing angrily in this direction now, because we’re talking.”

“I don’t care if he is; it’s altogether too much; tunes that he’s sung to us twenty times!”

“He says that he wrote them.”

“He lies; I’ve seen them printed under another name.”

“Great God! I believe he’s beginning another one. That fellow ought to be forbidden to enter a salon.”

“Faith, yes! let’s call Vauvert, and tell him to make him shut up.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“I’ll tell you; we must have some young lady escorted to the piano; perhaps that will compel Gripaille to give up his place.”

The two men ran after Vauvert, who was in the utmost perplexity, for he did not know how to request his friend Gripaille to cease to entertain the company. At last, a tall, stout young woman consented to sing; young Martin arrived to play the accompaniments, and they were escorted to the piano. Gripaille pretended not to see what was going on, and played the prelude to his sixth comic song; but the noise in the dressing room, where a party of young men had assembled who could not find room in the salon, forced the guitarist to abandon the contest; he rose very ill-humoredly, despite the faint forced applause, and for lack of something better to do sat down in front of the little old woman, who had been partly in a trance and partly in heaven throughout his singing.

“Come,” she said to Gripaille, as he approached, “come, let me embrace you! You have enchanted me—exalted me to the skies—that is the word! Come, I entreat you!”

The wretched guitarist was compelled to submit; he embraced the old lady with a good grace; admirers are rare, and one has to pay dear for them.

My neighbor spied me and came to me with outstretched hand; but he halted in front of my fair unknown, to whom he made a sweeping bow. The devil of a fellow seemed to know everybody. I listened to their conversation.

“Whom do I see? Madame de Marsan! by what chance? Really, this is a happiness I did not expect! To what are we indebted for this pleasant surprise?”

“Monsieur de Marsan meets Monsieur Vauvert sometimes at the department, and Monsieur Vauvert has been urging him for a long time to come to his concerts; so to-day we decided to come;—but I confess,” she said, turning to me, “that I did not expect all that I see.”

“We will try, madame, to give you so much pleasure that you will not regret your evening.”

Thereupon my neighbor ran to the piano, doubtless to preëmpt the place next to the tall young lady. But the little chubby-faced man had anticipated him, and I foresaw that we could not escape the Princesse de Navarre.

While the young woman was singing her air from Montano et Stéphanie, being forced to give up my chair to a damsel who was looking about in vain for a seat, I went for a breath of air to the dressing room, where a number of young men had taken refuge, driven from the salon by the shrill cries of the singer. At that moment the doorbell rang; Vauvert opened the door, and little Friquet appeared. I expected a scene between the uncle and the nephew, and I waited to hear.

“Where have you been, you rascal?” demanded Vauvert, trying to assume an imposing air.

“Why, uncle, I have been—I have been at the office.”

“At your office, until eleven o’clock at night!”

“Yes, uncle.”

“You don’t expect to make us believe that, I hope?”

“Why not, uncle?”

“Because I know that you leave it every night at nine o’clock.”

“The head clerk gave me some errands to do, uncle; that is what made me so late.”

“Errands! I know how you do errands! I’ve been hearing about you, young scoundrel that you are!”

“In the first place, uncle, I am not a scoundrel.”

“Your head clerk told me that the day before yesterday morning, while they were waiting for a very urgent paper that they’d sent you to have signed, he found you sitting coolly under Pont des Arts, fishing.”

“Me, uncle, me! My word, what a lie!”

“He has the face to deny it, when I have proofs of the fact!”

“Proofs? what proofs?”

“Look, Monsieur Friquet, here’s a package of hooks that I found in your coat pocket. Well! what do you say to that?”

“That doesn’t prove anything, uncle; I didn’t buy those hooks for myself.”

“For whom did you buy them, then?”

“For my brother, who means to go fishing in the Canal de l’Ourcq on Sunday.”

“You’re the most shameless liar I know. I’ll bet that you bought a theatre check to-night, and that you’ve been to see the end of some play.”

“You know perfectly well that I haven’t got any money, uncle.”

“Oh! you always have money to go to the theatre and to stuff yourself. Come, monsieur, fill the glasses and pass them round to the ladies.”

“That’s it!” muttered the little nephew, turning angrily on his heel; “as soon as I get home, I have to be uncle’s servant, they’d better get a negro. And then, the first thing in the morning, aunt sends me to get her milk and her fuel, and lights for her cat.”

“You seem to be arguing the matter!” said Madame Vauvert, pinching Friquet’s arm; “there! that’s to teach you to grumble.”

“Ow! how mean to pinch me like that, aunt! I shall be black and blue for a week.”

“So much the better!”

“Mon Dieu! how ugly she is!” muttered Friquet; and I saw him, for consolation, take a slice of cake out of his pocket and swallow it in three mouthfuls.

But the shrill sounds had ceased; the tall young lady was no longer singing. The little chubby-faced man took her place; he was determined to sing his air from Jean de Paris, and we had to resign ourselves. While he struggled to hold out his notes, coughing at every ritornelle to make us believe that he had a cold, I saw the other singers look at each other, make signs, yawn, and compress their lips. In truth, amateurs are more unkind than professionals, and they who are in great need of indulgence for themselves are always ready to tear others to tatters. They think to conceal their own mediocrity by calling attention to their neighbor’s lack of talent; self-esteem, which blinds us to our own defects, impels us to seek out with avidity the faults of others, as if we were the gainers thereby! What folly! Because Monsieur So-and-So sings false, does that give you a fine voice? because he plays the violin badly, are you the better performer on the piano? because another is ugly, awkward, and ridiculous, are you any handsomer, more graceful, and more agreeable? Of course not; but it is always pleasant to see people at whom one can poke fun, and whom we believe to be less abundantly endowed by Nature than we. Remember that Roquelaure joyously threw himself on the neck of a man who seemed to him even uglier than himself. But, monsieur, what a difference! Roquelaure sacrificed his self-esteem; but you, had you been in his place, would have made sport of the man he embraced, and, turning to look in a mirror, would have deemed yourself handsome, I vow.

The Princesse de Navarre being duly executed, the little man made the circuit of the salon, trying to pick up a word of praise, even from those whom he had so recently declared to be ignorant of music; for praise is always pleasant. Everybody told him that he had sung very well; that was inevitable; we were well bred, which means that we had ceased to be frank. I alone ventured to observe that he seemed to have a cold; he turned as red as a turkey cock, and his nose vanished completely.

“That is so,” he said at last; “I have a very bad cold; it embarrassed me a great deal.”

“Why did you sing, then?”

“Oh! people urged me so hard!”

And I had seen him dispute with Raymond for the opportunity! What strange creatures men are! But, hush! my neighbor was going to sing; that deserved attention. But, no; two other men anticipated him; they sang an Italian duet, I believe; but it was difficult to understand the veritable hotchpotch they made at the piano: one shook his head to mark time, as a bear dances behind the bars of his cage; the other, who was evidently very short-sighted, kept his nose glued to the music. The young man who acted as accompanist tried in vain to make them sing together: it was impossible.

“You’re behind,” said one.

“That’s because I skipped a line.”

“Well, go on!”

“You go too fast; you hurry me. I never saw the music before, and to sing Italian at sight is devilish hard.”

I was sure that he had been studying his part for a fortnight. Despite their efforts, they were obliged to leave the duet half sung.

“We will sing it the next time,” said Monsieur Chamonin; “we shall be surer of ourselves then, for the piece needs to be carefully studied. Rossini is very chromatic.”

“That’s so,” said Vauvert, stuffing his nose with snuff, a part of which remained on his shirt front; “it’s a pity you didn’t finish it, for I thought it was very pretty.”

“We’ll go and hear it once more at the Bouffons.”

“They had better stay there,” said Gripaille, in an undertone, delighted by their misadventure.

“For my part, I don’t care for Italian,” said Madame Vauvert. “I never can hear anything but tchi and tcha; and it doesn’t amuse me in the least.”

“Oh! what blasphemy, madame! not like Rossini!”

“Who’s Rossini, uncle?” inquired the youthful clerk, who had stolen into the salon. “Seems to me I’ve seen that name, in Don Quixote.”

“The idiot, to mistake Rosinante for Rossini! Go and wash the glasses, booby, and don’t mix in the conversation again.”

At last my neighbor was at the piano, and had opened his mouth to an enormous width to inform us that he had “long wandered o’er the world.” But at that moment we heard the notes of a ‘cello, and Vauvert appeared with a music stand, which he placed in the centre of the salon.

“What on earth are you doing there?” shouted Raymond; “don’t you see that I am singing?”

“Madame Witcheritche is going to play her solo on the ‘cello.”

“In a few minutes; I am singing now, I tell you. Madame Witcheritche can play afterward.”

“No, she wants to play now, because it’s getting late.”

And paying no heed to the mutterings of Raymond, who, in his wrath, overturned the candlestick on the piano, Vauvert arranged the music stand, then went to usher in the German virtuoso, whom I had not previously noticed. She was a very handsome woman, very fair and somewhat insipid, like most German women, but well built and graceful; she held the ‘cello between her legs with astonishing ease, and seemed not at all abashed. She played easily and with excellent taste; and I saw by the long faces of the members of the quartette that they had not expected to encounter in one of the other sex a musical talent in presence of which they could no longer hope to shine.

I heard a voice at my ear incessantly repeating:

“Gut, gut, sehr gut; tudge lidely, holt te pow firm; lidely on te shtrings!”

I turned and saw a hideous face looking first at the performer, then at the company, making grimaces for tokens of approval, and rolling about a pair of eyes that reminded me of Brunet’s in the Désespoir de Jocrisse. The owner of that extraordinary countenance was a tall man in a threadbare green coat, of vulgar aspect, and with pretentious airs which made him even more ridiculous.

“Who is that individual?” I asked one of my neighbors.

“That’s the husband of the lady playing the ‘cello.”

“What! such a disgusting face approach that charming head! What an outrage! It reminds me of a Satyr beside a Hebe.”

“Still, the lady seems to be fond of her husband.”

“It’s easy to see that she’s a foreigner. What does this husband of hers do?”

“Nothing; he’s a baron.”

“A baron! I should never have suspected it; he looks more like a cobbler. But in Germany everybody’s a baron, just as in Russia all the soldiers have decorations; it doesn’t mean anything.”

Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche, who, as he rolled his eyes about, had doubtless observed that I was looking at him, came to me as soon as his wife had finished, and began to converse with a smiling face. I have observed that the Germans smile a great deal when they are talking. I regretted that it was not courteous to laugh in a person’s face, for Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche was very amusing to look at, especially when he wished to make himself agreeable. I wondered what he wanted of me.

“I’ll pet tat monsir is ein egsberd on te ‘cello. Monsir is ein much gut blayer himself, hein?”

“I, monsieur? you are mistaken; I do not play at all.”

“Oh! you vish not to admit it; I can tivine all at once te innermost toughts of bersons py tare faces.”

“The deuce! you are very fortunate, Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche!”

“I haf shtudy te human heard; I am most egsberd in physsionomique.”

“What do you say, monsieur le baron?”

“I say I am ein egsberd in physsionomique.”

“I don’t understand at all.”

“In physsionomique.”

“Oh! you mean physiognomy.”

Monsieur le baron turned on his heel, without a smile. The best way to rid one’s self of a foreigner is to pretend not to understand him.

Meanwhile my little dialogue with Monsieur de Witcheritche had caused me to miss Monsieur Crachini’s romanza. I was sorry, for he always combined with his singing an expressive pantomime which made it doubly interesting. While various other amateurs entertained the company, I looked about for Raymond; for being unable to find a seat beside Madame de Marsan, I was anxious to obtain some information concerning her, and my neighbor was the very man to give me that.

He was not in the salon. I went into the smaller room, where my entrance brought to an abrupt close a whispered conversation between Vauvert and a fair-haired lady who had been in the dining room an hour, looking for her shawl amid a multitude of bonnets, mantles, and shawls which were tossed pell-mell on the bed of the host and hostess.

“Are you leaving us already?” said Vauvert, in a melting voice, glancing behind him to see if his wife was coming.

“Yes, it’s very late; I must go home.”

“My nephew will escort you.—Friquet! Friquet!”

Friquet appeared, and swore between his teeth at having to escort the blonde lady; he spent an interminable time looking for his hat and exclaiming in the lady’s ears that it was a nuisance to go out so late and go home with everybody. His uncle pulled his ears, and I joined Raymond, who was exhaling his vexation at the dressing room window.

“Aren’t you going to sing, neighbor?”

“Is it possible to do anything here, I should like to know? Did you ever see such confusion? such disorder? I don’t know where I am! I’ve told Vauvert a hundred times to draw up a programme and paste it on a mirror; then everything would go off in an orderly way. But, no; he won’t listen to anything! he amuses himself pinching and squeezing such little girls as he can find in the corners, instead of attending to his concert.”

“It is certainly true that it might be managed better.”

“The idea of giving us a concerto for the ‘cello that there’s no end to; just to grate on our ears! And then, I don’t care what you may say, a woman who plays the ‘cello is always absurd! It reminds me of a man darning stockings; and madame la baronne would do much better to stay at home and darn hers than execute staccatos and arpeggios.”

“What do you say? a baroness darn stockings?”

“Oh! nonsense! a pretty baron he makes! I saw him the other day on Boulevard du Temple, buying apples at a sou a bag; and he was haggling too! He bought sausage by the yard for his dinner; and someone who’s been at his house told me that they gave him gooseberries for refreshment! But this Vauvert’s a star! he tries to make us believe that he entertains princes, ambassadors perhaps! whereas his house is a veritable Noah’s Ark.”

“By the way, you seem to know Madame de Marsan?”

“Madame de Marsan? yes, to be sure; I go to her parties. She’s a fine woman, rather a flirt, as you must have seen; but she has wit and good breeding and style; she’s a woman who calls herself twenty-eight, and is really thirty-two. She is known to have had several passions; but as she doesn’t advertise them and is always regardful of decorum, there’s nothing to say: morals before everything. The husband is a good sort of fellow, very sharp, they say, when his own interests are concerned. He’s in business; but he’s not one of those poor devils who run about for a fortnight to discount a note which will be worth a commission of seven or eight francs to them; or one of those who offer you with an air of mystery houses that are advertised in the Petits-Affiches. This fellow knows what he’s about, and makes a lot of money. He has a fine country house, beyond Saint-Denis, in which madame has had a pretty little theatre arranged; in fact, I am to act there very soon. She’s a valuable acquaintance; for there’s lots of fun at her house. I myself have been there twice, and I know that they think a great deal of me. If you choose, my dear fellow, I’ll take you there; if introduced by me, you will be warmly welcomed.”

“Thanks; but, as you know, I don’t like to be presented in that way.”

Raymond left me, to return to the piano; he had not lost all hope of getting himself heard. I knew all that I wanted to know concerning Madame de Marsan. I returned to the salon. I had reason to believe that the lady was questioning my neighbor about me, and I knew that I need not be afraid of losing her good opinion through Raymond’s description of me, for he was one of those men who like to pretend that they have none but the most desirable acquaintances. I was in comfortable circumstances, and he had probably represented me as very wealthy; I was born of respectable parents, and he had probably placed me in one of the oldest families in France; and so on. To be sure, Madame de Marsan might have been told that I was fickle, inconstant, treacherous; but those failings never do a man any harm with the ladies.

A selection had just been performed on the harp; the performer had made but one mistake, had had to tune her instrument but twice, and had broken but four strings; we had no cause of complaint. Raymond had left Madame de Marsan, to find an accompanist, and threatened, if he failed in his quest, to accompany himself; by dint of hunting, urging, and entreating, he succeeded in bringing young Martin to the piano; he began to cough and expectorate, changed the position of the candles, ordered the windows to be closed, and struck an attitude supposed to represent Joconde. But a murmur arose on all sides; the young women ran to Monsieur Vauvert, the young men surrounded his wife; they had been promised a contradance; it was almost twelve o’clock, and if it was postponed any longer there would be no dancing. The hosts acceded to the prayers of their younger guests.

“We are going to dance!” shouted Vauvert, as the court bailiff cries: “Silence, please!”

Instantly everything was in a ferment in the salon; the young men hastened to engage partners, the chairs were moved away to make room, and the guests who did not dance were requested to retire to the corners.

Raymond stood at the piano with his mouth open; he thought that he must be mistaken; he could not believe his eyes; I believe that he was actually going to begin his aria; but instead of the prelude from Joconde, young Martin struck up a figure of Pantalon. My neighbor could not digest this final blow; he seized his music in a hand which shook with wrath, and, thrusting it under his arm, rushed across the salon like a madman, colliding with the dancers, and receiving kicks from the young men who were in the act of balancing to partners; I am convinced, however, that he did not feel them.

“Monsieur Raymond is going away in a rage,” observed a lady to Madame Vauvert, with a laugh; a lady whose hair was dressed à la Ninon, but had lost its curl and was floating in the air in long wisps, although she had taken the precaution not to remove her curl papers until she was on the staircase.

“Bah! I don’t care for that,” replied Madame Vauvert; “he bores us to death with his songs, and with the poetry he insists on reading to us; it’s always the same thing!”

At that moment, Raymond, whom I supposed to have left the house, appeared at the door of the salon and called out angrily:

“My hat, Madame Vauvert, I want my hat, where is it? It’s a lamentable fact that one can never find one’s things in your house.”

“Pardi! your hat isn’t lost.—Mon Dieu! I don’t see my cat! I put her on a chair by the fireplace. Why did anyone move her—poor Moumoute? The door of the landing is often open; she’s gone out, and she’ll be stolen!—Moumoute! Moumoute!”

The dancing continued, no heed being paid to Madame Vauvert’s lamentations and Raymond’s demands; the dancers were determined to compensate themselves, by a moment’s enjoyment, for several hours of ennui; and those who were afraid that their turn might not come took the precaution to move back the hands of the clock while Vauvert’s back was turned and his wife was looking for her cat.

I invited Madame de Marsan, and after much ceremony she consented to dance with me.

“What an extraordinary house!” she said to me.

“I find it delightful, since I have met you here.”

“But as it is probable that you will not meet me here again, and as I desire to see you again, I trust, monsieur, that you will do me the honor of coming to listen to a little music at my house.”

I accepted, as may be imagined; and after the dance was over, I prowled about the husband, with whom I entered into conversation. I talked of speculation, houses, châteaux, and the stock market with him; I took pains, without ostentation, to mention my name, to speak of my family and my means. In any other house, I should not have done so; but in such a mixed assemblage, I was not anxious that he should place me on a level with people, who, although very estimable no doubt, were nothing more than that; and in the opinion of many men that is not sufficient distinction. On the whole, I was satisfied that Monsieur de Marsan found me rather agreeable; it is so easy to catch people by the sensitive spot—that is to say, when they have one.

When young women begin to dance, it is much the same as when a poet begins to recite his verses: there is no reason why they should ever stop. But Madame Vauvert, thinking that they were making too much noise, and afraid of angering her landlord, had already said several times:

“This will be the last.”

But the last never came to an end.

Friquet, who had returned in high dudgeon because he had been obliged to escort a lady home, stole behind the dancers and looked at the clock; then he hastened to inform his uncle that the hands had been set back, so that they marked only twelve o’clock when it was nearly one. Vauvert consulted his watch, saw that his nephew was right, and concluded that it was incumbent on him to show some resolution, and that his dignity required him to turn his guests out of doors at once.

He immediately extinguished the lamps in the four corners of the salon, leaving only a few candles lighted; and the young men were about to extinguish them as well, and thus make the scene more amusing, when Vauvert took possession of them and harangued the company thus:

“I have already told you that it is time to go; my wife is indisposed, and I am surprised that anyone should continue to dance against our wishes.”

This courteous speech made everybody laugh, and they hurried into the dressing room to prepare for departure. But there the confusion and disorder reached their climax. The ladies called for their shawls, mantles, bonnets, and slippers; the singers demanded their music or their instruments; they made mistakes, and many could not find what they wanted; the young men hovered about the ladies, on the pretext of assisting them, but really because such crushes are most propitious to lovers and amateurs. One tied a ribbon, another put on an overshoe, another held a little foot while the slipper was being removed. Amid the tumult, mothers called their daughters, husbands their wives, brothers their sisters. But those ladies were far too busy to answer. They were whispering, squeezing hands, making appointments, arranging other meetings; in truth, the moment of departure is not that at which the guests enjoy themselves least.

I tried to save Madame de Marsan the trouble of looking for her shawl in that crowd; I went into the bedroom, and succeeded, not without difficulty, in reaching the bed, on which the bonnets and wraps were piled; my hand, seeking a shawl, came in contact with a firm and well-rounded form, which I was not seeking, but which I embraced as a matter of habit, and because I thought that it belonged to a lady with whom I was very intimate. But the lady, who was stooping over the bed, and whose back only could I see, turned suddenly. Horror! it was not she whom I thought! I proceeded to entangle myself in apologies, but she gave me a most tender and amiable smile, which seemed to invite me to continue. Faith! I admit that I should not have expected it on the part of the lady in question, who, in the salon, played the prude, the straitlaced, stern moralist. Trust appearances, who will! I have already said that I never would; but a great many people say that, and still allow themselves to be deceived.

At last everyone had succeeded in finding what he or she sought. Friquet, who was anxious to go to bed, had been standing a long while on the landing, candle in hand, ready to light us downstairs. As for the master and mistress of the house, they had manifested clearly enough their desire to see the last of us; so we started down. It was quite a little procession; everyone took the hand of his favorite and descended the stairs, laughing heartily over the evening’s entertainment. The young men were very noisy, because Vauvert had urged them to be silent on account of his neighbors. On the second floor, a young man upset the candlestick that Friquet carried, and we found ourselves in utter darkness.

We all roared with laughter. The mammas scolded the perpetrator of the mischief, the young ladies did the same, but I have reason to believe that many of them were not very angry.

“Idiot! he’s always doing such things!” Vauvert shouted at his nephew from the top of the stairs.

“I didn’t do it, uncle,” replied the clerk; “somebody knocked my candle out of my hand on purpose.”

“I not untershtand vy tay do amuse temselfs py making us near fall town and may pe hurt ourselfs,” muttered the Baron de Witcheritche, whom I believed to be very jealous of his wife, and who was made uneasy by the darkness.

“Holt tidt to te rail, my tear,” said the baroness, in a flutelike little voice, “and tague care ov my Shtradifarius.”

“Your Shtradifarius is chust te ting tat makes me frighted.”

We went down carefully and very softly. I held Madame de Marsan’s hand, and I did not complain of the darkness; but the little clerk, who had relighted his candle at the porter’s lodge, returned with his light just as we reached the lowest stair. I noticed then some changes in the order of departure; some mantles awry, some faces very much excited, and many eyes fastened on the ground, doubtless because the light made them smart; but I do not mean to suggest any implications unfavorable to the virtue of the ladies in question, married or single.

The moment to say farewell had arrived. I saw diverse poor fellows who lived near the Palais-Royal doomed to act as escort to feminine families from the heart of the Marais. I saw young ladies manœuvre to take the arms of their chosen friends; I saw many a wife sigh as she took her husband’s arm. I should have seen much else, no doubt, if it had not been dark. But Madame de Marsan and her husband were in their carriage; and he, learning that I lived on Rue Saint-Florentin, obligingly offered me a seat. I accepted without hesitation. Decidedly Monsieur de Marsan was a most agreeable man.

“There’s no one else!” Friquet shouted to the concierge, as he closed the porte cochère.

“That’s very lucky,” replied the concierge, closing his door. “Past one o’clock. Your uncle will have notice to quit, I promise you. He makes a great show, gives evening parties, and keeps people up all night, and all for nothing! When a man wants to cut such capers, he should have a house to himself.”