It was on a Saturday, an opera day. It was not yet intended, as may well be supposed, to inaugurate the new illumination. No; the pipes had reached the hall, but, for reasons indicated above, the burners had not yet been placed, and the wax-candles still shed their soft light upon the numerous spectators who filled the theatre. The doors had been opened to the public at one o’clock, and by three the hall was half full. A queue had at one time been formed, which extended as far as the end of the Place Saint Ernuph, in front of the shop of Josse Lietrinck the apothecary. This eagerness was significant of an unusually attractive performance. “Are you going to the theatre this evening?” inquired the counsellor the same morning of the burgomaster. “I shall not fail to do so,” returned Van Tricasse, “and I shall take Madame Van Tricasse, as well as our daughter Suzel and our dear Tatanémance, who all dote on good music.” “Mademoiselle Suzel is going then?” “Certainly, Niklausse.” “Then my son Frantz will be one of the first to arrive,” said Niklausse. “A spirited boy, Niklausse,” replied the burgomaster sententiously; “but hot-headed! He will require watching!” “He loves, Van Tricasse,—he loves your charming Suzel.” “Well, Niklausse, he shall marry her. Now that we have agreed on this marriage, what more can he desire?” “He desires nothing, Van Tricasse, the dear boy! But, in short— we’ll say no more about it—he will not be the last to get his ticket at the box-office.” “Ah, vivacious and ardent youth!” replied the burgomaster, recalling his own past. “We have also been thus, my worthy counsellor! We have loved—we too! We have danced attendance in our day! Till to-night, then, till to-night! By-the-bye, do you know this Fiovaranti is a great artist? And what a welcome he has received among us! It will be long before he will forget the applause of Quiquendone!” The tenor Fiovaranti was, indeed, going to sing; Fiovaranti, who, by his talents as a virtuoso, his perfect method, his melodious voice, provoked a real enthusiasm among the lovers of music in the town. For three weeks Fiovaranti had been achieving a brilliant success in “Les Huguenots.” The first act, interpreted according to the taste of the Quiquendonians, had occupied an entire evening of the first week of the month.—Another evening in the second week, prolonged by infinite _andantes_, had elicited for the celebrated singer a real ovation. His success had been still more marked in the third act of Meyerbeer’s masterpiece. But now Fiovaranti was to appear in the fourth act, which was to be performed on this evening before an impatient public. Ah, the duet between Raoul and Valentine, that pathetic love-song for two voices, that strain so full of _crescendos_, _stringendos_, and _piu crescendos_—all this, sung slowly, compendiously, interminably! Ah, how delightful! [Illustration: Fiovaranti had been achieving a brilliant success in “Les Huguenots.”]