"What! such a disgusting face approach that charming head! What an outrage! It reminds me of a Satyr beside a Hebe." "Still, the lady seems to be fond of her husband." "It's easy to see that she's a foreigner. What does this husband of hers do?" "Nothing; he's a baron." "A baron! I should never have suspected it; he looks more like a cobbler. But in Germany everybody's a baron, just as in Russia all the soldiers have decorations; it doesn't mean anything." Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche, who, as he rolled his eyes about, had doubtless observed that I was looking at him, came to me as soon as his wife had finished, and began to converse with a smiling face. I have observed that the Germans smile a great deal when they are talking. I regretted that it was not courteous to laugh in a person's face, for Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche was very amusing to look at, especially when he wished to make himself agreeable. I wondered what he wanted of me. "I'll pet tat monsir is ein egsberd on te 'cello. Monsir is ein much gut blayer himself, hein?" "I, monsieur? you are mistaken; I do not play at all." "Oh! you vish not to admit it; I can tivine all at once te innermost toughts of bersons py tare faces." "The deuce! you are very fortunate, Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche!" "I haf shtudy te human heard; I am most egsberd in physsionomique." "What do you say, monsieur le baron?" "I say I am ein egsberd in physsionomique." "I don't understand at all." "In physsionomique." "Oh! you mean physiognomy." Monsieur le baron turned on his heel, without a smile. The best way to rid one's self of a foreigner is to pretend not to understand him. Meanwhile my little dialogue with Monsieur de Witcheritche had caused me to miss Monsieur Crachini's romanza. I was sorry, for he always combined with his singing an expressive pantomime which made it doubly interesting. While various other amateurs entertained the company, I looked about for Raymond; for being unable to find a seat beside Madame de Marsan, I was anxious to obtain some information concerning her, and my neighbor was the very man to give me that. He was not in the salon. I went into the smaller room, where my entrance brought to an abrupt close a whispered conversation between Vauvert and a fair-haired lady who had been in the dining room an hour, looking for her shawl amid a multitude of bonnets, mantles, and shawls which were tossed pell-mell on the bed of the host and hostess. "Are you leaving us already?" said Vauvert, in a melting voice, glancing behind him to see if his wife was coming. "Yes, it's very late; I must go home." "My nephew will escort you.--Friquet! Friquet!"