I have no idea how my conversation with those two gentlemen veered around to politics, of which I have a perfect horror. I discovered to my surprise that Monsieur Sordeville was in government employ and already hinted at opposition. But it did not interest me. I was tempted to close my eyes, like the old gentleman; then I should be more at liberty to think of something else. Luckily, someone began to play on the piano, and gave me an excuse for leaving my politicians. I returned to the salon, and approached the mistress of the house, intending to say something agreeable to her. But I did not know how to begin the conversation, and I finally asked her if she were going to sing. "No, I don't sing; but I am ready to play an accompaniment, if anybody wants me to." "Do you play the piano?" "Yes, monsieur; and you?" "A little." "Do you sing?" "Only at home, when I am alone." "Ha! ha! that's selfishness." "Prudence, rather." "Surely you will depart from your habit this evening, and sing in company?" "Oh, no! I should not dare to, before you." "Why so? do I frighten you?" "You do something very different." She smiled, as she smiled at the ball. Ah! how sweet she was at that moment! But somebody spoke to her, and I was separated from her again. Someone was going to sing, and silence was requested; I took a seat behind two consummately ugly women, who would not distract my thoughts. The singer was a man, a stout, square-shouldered young man, who struck an attitude like Monsieur Keller as Hercules. I expected a voice that would make our ears ring and the windows rattle; surely nothing different could come from that colossus. In truth, at the first note everybody shuddered. What a voice! indeed, I doubt if it could be called a voice. For my part, I could think of nothing but the roaring of a bull. But there were some people who thought it magnificent. He sang an aria from _Robert le Diable_. The two ladies in front of me emitted _ohs!_ and _ahs!_ which led me to believe that they agreed with me and that the performance deafened them; especially as the singer, not content with bursting our ear drums, was almost invariably off the pitch; he sang false with imperturbable assurance. There were moments when he put forth such a volume of voice that I wondered if people passing through the street would not think that a crime was being committed in the house. At last the performance came to an end. The two ladies turned toward me with smiling faces, and I could not help saying: "I prefer an orchestra with four drums. I don't know yet whether I have any ears left; I believe they are split." The words were hardly out of my mouth, when the bulky singer walked across the salon and halted directly in front of the two ladies. "I am not in good voice this evening," he said; "it seemed as if my notes wouldn't come out. What did you think, mother?" "Why, my dear, you sang beautifully, I assure you."