o
where I was standing.

"You saw how she blushed?" he said in a fierce whisper. "_Sacredie_!
I'll bet my head she's an arrant flirt. Who, in the name of all the
fiends, is this lodger she's been carrying on with? A lodger, too--oh!
the artful puss!"

At this awkward moment, Monsieur Dorinet, with considerable tact, asked
Monsieur Philomene for a song; and Monsieur Philomene (who as I
afterwards learned was a favorite tenor at fifth-rate concerts) was
graciously pleased to comply.

Not, however, without a little preliminary coquetry, after the manner of
tenors. First he feared he was hoarse; then struck a note or two on the
piano, and tried his falsetto; then asked for a glass of water; and
finally begged that one of the young ladies would be so amiable as to
accompany him.

Mademoiselle Honoria, inheriting rigidity from the maternal Cyclops,
drew herself up and declined stiffly; but the other, whom the
dancing-master had called Rosalie, got up directly and said she would
do her best.

"Only," she added, blushing, "I play so badly!"

Monsieur Philomene was provided with two copies of his song--one for the
accompanyist and one for himself; then, standing well away from the
piano with his face to the audience, he balanced his music in his hand,
made his little professional bow, coughed, ran his fingers through his
hair, and assumed an expression of tender melancholy.

"One--two--three," began Mdlle. Rosalie, her little fat fingers
staggering helplessly among the first cadenzas of the symphony.
"One--two--three. One" ...

Monsieur Philomene interrupted with a wave of the hand, as if conducting
an orchestra.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle," he said, "not quite so fast, if you please!
Andantino--andantino--one--two--three ... Just so! A thousand thanks!"

Again Mdlle. Rosalie attacked the symphony. Again Monsieur Philomene
cleared his voice, and suffered a pensive languor to cloud his
manly brow.

"_Revenez, revenez, beaux jours de mon enfance,_"

he began, in a small, tremulous, fluty voice.

"They'll have a long road to travel back, _parbleu_!" muttered Mueller.

"_De votre aspect riant charmer ma souvenance_!"

Here Mdlle. Rosalie struck a wrong chord, became involved in hopeless
difficulties, and gasped audibly.

Monsieur Philomene darted a withering glance at her, and went on:--

"_Mon coeur; mon pauvre coeur_" ...

More wrong chords, and a smothered "_mille pardons_!" from Mdlle.
Rosalie