Part 9

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.