“Musseer has his dinner at half–past four,” Madame explained. “I don’t take mine till he’s laid down and I’ve got him off to the concert. There, he’s coming now. Sometimes he comes home pretty nervous. If he’s nervous, don’t you go and make a fuss, do you hear, child?” The door opened, and Musseer entered, wrapped in a huge frogged overcoat. There was no doubt that he was nervous. He cast his hat upon the floor, as if he were Jove dashing a thunderbolt. Fire flashed from his eyes. He advanced upon his wife and thrust a newspaper in her face—a little pinky sheet, a notorious blackmailing publication. “Zees,” he cried, “is your work!” “What _is_ it, now, Hipleet?” demanded Mme. Rémy. “Vot it ees?” shrieked the tenor. “It ees ze history of how zey have heest me at Nice! It ees all zair—how I have been heest—in zis sacré sheet—in zis hankairchif of infamy! And it ees you zat have told it to zat devil of a Rastignac—_traitresse_!” [Illustration] “Now, Hipleet,” pleaded his wife, “if I can’t learn enough French to talk with you, how am I going to tell Rastignac about your being hissed?” This reasoning silenced Mr. Rémy for an instant—an instant only. “You _vood_ have done it!” he cried, sticking out his chin and thrusting his face forward. “Well, I didn’t,” said Madame, “and nobody reads that thing, any way. Now, don’t you mind it, and let me get your things off, or you’ll be catching cold.” Mr. Rémy yielded at last to the necessity of self–preservation, and permitted his wife to remove his frogged overcoat, and to unwind him from a system of silk wraps to which the Gordian knot was a slip–noose. This done, he sat down before the dressing–case, and Mme. Rémy, after tying a bib around his neck, proceeded to dress his hair and put brilliantine on his moustache. Her husband enlivened the operation by reading from the pinky paper. “It ees not gen–air–al–lee known—zat zees dees–tin–guished tenor vos heest on ze pob–lic staidj at Nice—in ze year—“ Louise leaned against the wall, sick, faint and frightened, with a strange sense of shame and degradation at her heart. At last the tenor’s eye fell on her. “Anozzair eediot?” he inquired. “She ain’t very bright, Hipleet,” replied his wife; “but I guess she’ll do. Louise, open the door—there’s the caterer.” Louise placed the dishes upon the table mechanically. The tenor sat himself at the board, and tucked a napkin in his neck. “And how did the Benediction Song go this afternoon?” inquired his wife. “Ze Bénédiction? Ah! One _encore_. One on–lee. Zese pigs of Américains. I t’row my pairls biffo’ swine. _Chops once more!_ You vant to mordair me? Vat do zis mean, madame? You ar–r–r–re in lig wiz my enemies. All ze vorlt is against ze ar–r–r–teest!”