I was sure that he had been studying his part for a fortnight. Despite their efforts, they were obliged to leave the duet half sung. "We will sing it the next time," said Monsieur Chamonin; "we shall be surer of ourselves then, for the piece needs to be carefully studied. Rossini is very chromatic." "That's so," said Vauvert, stuffing his nose with snuff, a part of which remained on his shirt front; "it's a pity you didn't finish it, for I thought it was very pretty." "We'll go and hear it once more at the Bouffons." "They had better stay there," said Gripaille, in an undertone, delighted by their misadventure. "For my part, I don't care for Italian," said Madame Vauvert. "I never can hear anything but _tchi and tcha_; and it doesn't amuse me in the least." "Oh! what blasphemy, madame! not like Rossini!" "Who's Rossini, uncle?" inquired the youthful clerk, who had stolen into the salon. "Seems to me I've seen that name, in _Don Quixote_." "The idiot, to mistake _Rosinante for Rossini_! Go and wash the glasses, booby, and don't mix in the conversation again." At last my neighbor was at the piano, and had opened his mouth to an enormous width to inform us that he had "long wandered o'er the world." But at that moment we heard the notes of a 'cello, and Vauvert appeared with a music stand, which he placed in the centre of the salon. "What on earth are you doing there?" shouted Raymond; "don't you see that I am singing?" "Madame Witcheritche is going to play her solo on the 'cello." "In a few minutes; I am singing now, I tell you. Madame Witcheritche can play afterward." "No, she wants to play now, because it's getting late." And paying no heed to the mutterings of Raymond, who, in his wrath, overturned the candlestick on the piano, Vauvert arranged the music stand, then went to usher in the German virtuoso, whom I had not previously noticed. She was a very handsome woman, very fair and somewhat insipid, like most German women, but well built and graceful; she held the 'cello between her legs with astonishing ease, and seemed not at all abashed. She played easily and with excellent taste; and I saw by the long faces of the members of the quartette that they had not expected to encounter in one of the other sex a musical talent in presence of which they could no longer hope to shine. I heard a voice at my ear incessantly repeating: "Gut, gut, sehr gut; tudge lidely, holt te pow firm; lidely on te shtrings!" I turned and saw a hideous face looking first at the performer, then at the company, making grimaces for tokens of approval, and rolling about a pair of eyes that reminded me of Brunet's in the _Désespoir de Jocrisse_. The owner of that extraordinary countenance was a tall man in a threadbare green coat, of vulgar aspect, and with pretentious airs which made him even more ridiculous. "Who is that individual?" I asked one of my neighbors. "That's the husband of the lady playing the 'cello."