All this irritated me; I was intensely annoyed to find that she paid no attention to me, and I went to the piano and began to turn over the music. But she observed my movements sufficiently to see that I was there, for she came to me and said: "It's a great pity that you sing only when you are alone; for I should have been delighted to hear you, monsieur." "Mon Dieu! if it will give you any pleasure, madame----" "You will sing? How good of you!" "I will try to sing something. I don't know whether I can manage it." "Oh! that is an amateur's modesty! I am sure that you sing beautifully." She walked quickly to a seat, saying: "Monsieur Rochebrune is going to sing. Silence, if you please!" Everyone ceased talking, and the room became perfectly still. I began to be afraid that I had gone too fast. To be sure, I sing rather well, but it so rarely happens that I sing before strangers. However, I realized that I must do my best; it was impossible to back out. I sat down at the piano. My fingers refused to move. What was I to sing? I must make up my mind, for everybody was waiting. I settled upon a romanza by Massini; as is usually the case when one is afraid, I selected the most difficult piece I knew and the one that I sang least well. At the outset, I forgot the accompaniment and struck two or three discordant notes in the bass--something that had never happened to me before. That was calculated to give my hearers rather a sorry idea of my musical organization. When I came to the second verse, I forgot the words. I stopped, and began again; but it was of no use, and I mumbled between my teeth: "Tradera, deri, dera!" The words of the third verse came to me all right, and I determined to be revenged for the mess I had made of the other two. I attacked it with confidence, and when I came to an _ad libitum_ passage I risked a note which I had taken a hundred times without any trouble. But I had something in my throat that night. Was it fear? was it ill humor? This much is certain, that I made a vile fiasco, and that I ended my song coughing as if I had swallowed something the wrong way. I left the piano, purple with chagrin, and still coughing. Somebody was malicious enough to applaud me; but I saw in the eyes of the guests that malignant joy which people always feel in society when they have a fair opportunity to laugh at somebody. What distressed me most of all was that I had made an ass of myself before Armantine, who was much given to raillery, and who could hardly restrain her laughter; while Herr von Brunzbrack said to me with the utmost good faith: "Vat a bity tat you haf ein cold! Id vas going so vell!" I made no reply; I would have liked to crawl under a sofa. I slunk away to a corner of the salon, where I heard a voice in my ear: "That false note puts you back at least three months!"