“Can you make out what the head is meant for?”

“Not I. I confess I never saw any thing so ridiculous.”

“It’s Belisarius, my dear fellow.”

“Impossible!—­it’s the portrait of some grocer, some relation, probably, of the family—­look at the nose—­the mouth—­”

“It is intolerable folly to put a frame to such a daub.”

“They must be immensely silly.”

“Why, it isn’t half so good as the head of the Wandering Jew at the top of a penny ballad.”

M. Lupot has heard enough.  He slips off from the group without a word, and glides noiselessly to the piano.  The young performer who had sacrificed a great concert to come to his soiree, had sat down to the instrument and run his fingers over the notes.

“What a spinnet!” he cried—­“what a wretched kettle!  How can you expect a man to perform on such a miserable instrument?  The thing is absurd—­hear this A—­hear this G—­it’s like a hurdygurdy—­not one note of it in tune!” But the performer stayed at the piano notwithstanding, and played incessantly, thumping the keys with such tremendous force, that every minute a chord snapped; when such a thing happened—­he burst into a laugh, and said, “Good! there’s another gone—­there will soon be none left.”

M. Lupot flushed up to the ears.  He felt very much inclined to say to the celebrated performer, “Sir, I didn’t ask you here to break all the chords of my piano.  Let the instrument alone if you don’t like it, but don’t hinder other people from playing on it for our amusement.”

But the good M. Lupot did not venture on so bold a speech, which would have been a very sensible speech nevertheless; and he stood quietly while his chords were getting smashed, though it was by no means a pleasant thing to do.

Mademoiselle Celanire goes up to her father.  She is distressed at the way her piano is treated; she has no opportunity of playing her air; but she hopes to make up for it by singing a romance, which one of their old neighbours is going to accompany on the guitar.

It is not without some difficulty that M. Lupot obtains silence for his daughter’s song.  At sight of the old neighbour and his guitar a smothered laugh is visible in the assembly.  It is undeniable that the gentleman is not unlike a respectable Troubadour with a barrel organ, and that his guitar is like an ancient harp.  There is great curiosity to hear the old gentleman touch his instrument.  He begins by beating time with his feet and his head, which latter movement gives him very much the appearance of a mandarin that you sometimes see on a mantelpiece.  Nevertheless Mademoiselle Lupot essays her ballad; but she can never manage to overtake her accompanier, who, instead of following the singer, seems determined to make no alteration in the movement of his head and feet.  The ballad is a failure—­Celanire is confused, she has mistaken her notes—­she loses her recollection; and, instead of hearing his daughter’s praises, M. Lupot overhears the young people whispering—­“It wouldn’t do in a beer-shop.”