"Why, the poor man's been running his legs off ever since dinner. He had to fetch Madame Rosemonde and her daughter, then go to the musical instrument maker's for a double bass, then send for Mademoiselle Luquet's harp, then go to make sure that Monsieur Crachini could come; in fact, there's no end to what he's had to do!" "I can see that he has had his hands full." "And that little rascal of a Friquet doesn't come home! I hope his uncle will give him a good trouncing to-night. But come in, my dear fellow." Our conversation was held in a narrow passage leading on one side to the dining room, which did duty as bedroom and dressing room, and on the other to the salon. I entered this last-named apartment, where the regular habitués and the newcomers were assembled. Everyone was wondering what the host and hostess could be doing, that no one had seen them; everyone was calling for them, and asking why the music could not begin; but not one of the singers was willing to sing first, and the instrumentalists seemed no better disposed. "It seems to me that things aren't likely to go very well to-night," said a short, pockmarked man, who waddled up to me, smiling maliciously, whose nose was hidden by his bulging cheeks, and whose eyes one sought in vain behind his spectacles. "Almost ten o'clock, and nothing doing; you must agree that it's disrespectful to the company! Poor Vauvert! passing his evening scouring the neighborhood for instruments and scores! It's amusing enough! There are not two houses like this in Paris." "That is just why it's so priceless. But aren't you going to sing to-night?" "Yes; I've brought my song from _Jean de Paris_; it's called the _Princesse de Navarre_." "I seem to remember that you sang that to us at the last reception." "So I did; but I haven't had time to learn anything else; and then, you know, it's such a fine thing!-- "''Tis the Princesse de Navarre whom I annou--ou--ounce!' Gad! how pretty it is!" "Yes, when Martin sings it, it's delightful. Shall we have much singing to-night?" "Oh! we shall have some sport. Raymond is to sing the aria from _Joconde_; that tall girl yonder is to sing the inevitable song from _Montano et Stéphanie_; the pupil from the Conservatoire has brought a song, too; and Monsieur Crachini will obligingly deafen us with a romanza or two. Then Chamonin and his friend are to make an attempt at a duo from the Bouffes. That's enough, I hope! God grant that Gripaille doesn't take his guitar to accompany us! if he does, we are lost." As the chubby-faced little man finished speaking, Gripaille accosted him, and was greeted with: "Well, my dear Gripaille, aren't we to have the pleasure of hearing you? Come, bring out your guitar; these ladies are dying for some of your chords." Gripaille, who considered himself the first guitarist in Paris, replied, casting a seductive leer upon the ladies who surrounded us: