There was a general laugh. He sat down on the music stool. "First part. Four o'clock in the morning." His fingers raced over the keys. A running accompaniment in the bass suggested the army sleeping. A high note, the bugle call, suddenly burst forth followed instantaneously by shouts, the stir of troops awakening and moving to and fro, and the neighing of horses.... "Bravo!" Reminiscences no doubt of melodies he had composed or learnt. His rare skill soldered them into a sort of pot-pourri, which was at the same time both genial and burlesque. He jerked out the titles of motifs: the start at dawn, the approach of the enemy, the deployment, then the surprise of the first shots, the scattering, and the reply.... The pianist's fancy multiplied and expanded, painting an extraordinary picture. In the left hand, the cannon rumbled ceaselessly in hollow tones. In the treble a frenzy of staccato notes crackled like a fusillade. Between the two, smothered vociferations, and the trampling of the combatants could be distinguished. To end up with there was the charge, swelling harmonies, and a roar of glory and madness, throughout which fragments of the famous "_La Goutte à boire!!!_" recurred persistently. Miquel paused. There was a burst of applause. "Hush!" he said. "Wait for the day after...." He struck a minor chord, succeeded by two or three others, equally lugubrious, a gloomy _arpeggio_ strengthened the impression of mourning.... The day after! yes. There was a slight shudder. I recognised Beethoven's _Funeral March_. "How idiotic! What are you playing that for?" Denais had got up, and was drawing his hand across his forehead. Then embarrassed by our glances he forced a wry smile. "Rotting apart, it's not exactly cheerful!" A few backed him up. Others shrugged their shoulders. A discussion began which degenerated into an uproar. Laraque took possession of the piano and romped through a "tango" which was applauded. Miquel was called upon again; but he refused point blank this time, and it was not very long before he left, perhaps because he was offended. Then Guillaumin and I went to swell a group which had formed in a corner, round Fortin, who was holding forth. A robust fellow, with an enormous forehead, and a clever, ugly face, he was repeating the lessons he had just brought back from Germany where he had been living for some time. His rich voice carried wonderfully, supported by his energetic gestures. A frequenter of public meetings and debating societies, one was tempted to forgive him if he was rather inclined to like the sound of his own voice, because he spoke well. To begin with, however, I only half listened to him. He was enlarging upon the industrial qualities of that race, their method, and patience, and tenacity of purpose, their thoroughness in perfecting detail; on their moral virtues too, from which the others sprang.