Neighbor Raymond, who lost no time when he hoped to win applause, had already approached the piano and was looking about for someone to accompany him. But Monsieur Gripaille, seeing that no one asked him to sing, or paid any attention to him, ran and seized the guitar, seated himself in the centre of the salon, and prepared to begin. Singing is always the most popular part of a concert, especially a concert of amateurs, where those who play upon any instrument are rarely good enough players or good enough musicians to give pleasure to their audience. A quartette entertains none but those who take part in it; a sonata on the piano makes people yawn; airs with variations for the harp are always twice too long, and pieces for the guitar always fall flat after other instruments. Only for singing, therefore, does the audience at such affairs care to cease its conversation; a pleasant voice never wearies the attention or the ears. But Monsieur Gripaille had not a pleasant voice--far from it; it was a continual medley of falsetto, shrill notes, and transitions of an octave, the whole accompanied by the thrumming of his thumb on the bass chord of the guitar, while he shook his head from side to side to add to his personal charms. However, the airs he sang were sometimes tuneful, the words amusing, and his performance diverted the company for a moment. But as he always sang the same things, we knew them by heart; and when he once had the guitar in his hands, it was impossible to make him put it down; after the ballad came a rondeau, after the rondeau a comic song, after the comic song another ballad, and so on. I was not bored, because I was talking with the new arrival, who seemed vastly astonished at all that she saw, and very glad to find me there; for she recognized me, and I saw that my presence was not disagreeable to her. But soon I heard neighbor Raymond and the man with spectacles objurgating Gripaille because he did not stop singing. "It's horrible! it's murderous! it's enough to put you to sleep!" said Raymond; "he'll never stop!" "Oh! when he once has his guitar, we are lost! there's nothing to do but let him sing." "And he doesn't want anyone to make a sound, either; not even to speak. See! he's glancing angrily in this direction now, because we're talking." "I don't care if he is; it's altogether too much; tunes that he's sung to us twenty times!" "He says that he wrote them." "He lies; I've seen them printed under another name." "Great God! I believe he's beginning another one. That fellow ought to be forbidden to enter a salon." "Faith, yes! let's call Vauvert, and tell him to make him shut up." "He wouldn't dare." "I'll tell you; we must have some young lady escorted to the piano; perhaps that will compel Gripaille to give up his place."