Mademoiselle Honoria, inheriting rigidity from the maternal Cyclops, drew herself up and declined stiffly; but the other, whom the dancing-master had called Rosalie, got up directly and said she would do her best.

“Only,” she added, blushing, “I play so badly!”

Monsieur Philomene was provided with two copies of his song—­one for the accompanyist and one for himself; then, standing well away from the piano with his face to the audience, he balanced his music in his hand, made his little professional bow, coughed, ran his fingers through his hair, and assumed an expression of tender melancholy.

“One—­two—­three,” began Mdlle.  Rosalie, her little fat fingers staggering helplessly among the first cadenzas of the symphony.  “One—­two—­three.  One” ...

Monsieur Philomene interrupted with a wave of the hand, as if conducting an orchestra.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said, “not quite so fast, if you please!  Andantino—­andantino—­one—­two—­three ...  Just so!  A thousand thanks!”

Again Mdlle.  Rosalie attacked the symphony.  Again Monsieur Philomene cleared his voice, and suffered a pensive languor to cloud his manly brow.

     “Revenez, revenez, beaux jours de mon enfance,”

he began, in a small, tremulous, fluty voice.

“They’ll have a long road to travel back, parbleu!” muttered Mueller.

     “De votre aspect riant charmer ma souvenance!”

Here Mdlle.  Rosalie struck a wrong chord, became involved in hopeless difficulties, and gasped audibly.

Monsieur Philomene darted a withering glance at her, and went on:—­

     “Mon coeur; mon pauvre coeur” ...

More wrong chords, and a smothered “mille pardons!” from Mdlle.  Rosalie.

     “Mon coeur, mon pauvre coeur a la tristesse en proie,
     En fouillant le passe"....

A dead stop on the part of Mdlle.  Rosalie.

     "En fouillant le passe"....

repeated the tenor, with the utmost severity of emphasis.

“Mais, mon Dieu, Rosalie! what are you doing?” cried Madame Desjardins, angrily.  “Why don’t you go on?”

Mdlle.  Rosalie burst into a flood of tears.

“I—­I can’t!” she sobbed.  “It’s so—­so very difficult—­and"...

Madame Desjardins flung up her hands in despair.

“Ciel!” she cried, “and I have been paying three francs a lesson for you, Mademoiselle, twice a week for the last six years!”

“Mais, maman"....

“Fi done, Mademoiselle!  I am ashamed of you.  Make a curtsey to Monsieur Philomene this moment, and beg his pardon; for you have spoiled his beautiful song!”

But Monsieur Philomene would hear of no such expiation.  His soul, to use his own eloquent language, recoiled from it with horror!  The accompaniment, a vrai dire, was not easy, and la bien aimable Mam’selle Rosalie had most kindly done her best with it. Allons donc!—­on condition that no more should be said on the subject, Monsieur Philomene would volunteer to sing a little unaccompanied romance of his own composition—­a mere bagatelle; but a tribute to “les beaux yeux de ces cheres dames!”