“Now, then!” said Marillac, who had been extremely busy during these preparations, and had spread a dozen musical scores upon the top of the piano, “it is agreed that we shall sing the duet from Mose.  There are two or three little boarding-school misses here whose mothers are dying for them to show off.  You understand that we must sacrifice ourselves to encourage them.  Besides, a duet for male voices is the thing to open a concert with.”

“A concert! has Madame de Bergenheim arranged to pasture us in this sheepfold in order to make use of us this evening?” replied Gerfaut, whose ill-humor increased every moment.

“Five or six pieces only, afterward they will have a dance.  I have an engagement with your diva; if you wish for a quadrille and have not yet secured your number, I should advise you to ask her for it now, for there are five or six dandies who seem to be terribly attentive to her.  After our duet I shall sing the trio from La Date Blanche, with those young ladies who have eyes as round as a fish’s, and apricot-colored gowns on—­those two over there in the corner, near that pretty blonde who sat beside you at table and ogled you all the time.  She had already bored me to death!  I do not know whether I shall be able to hit my low ‘G’ right or not.  I have a cataclysm of charlotte-russe in my stomach.  Just listen: 

          ‘A cette complaisance!—­’”

Marillac leaned toward his friend and roared in his ear the note supposed to be the “G” in question.

“Like an ophicleide,” said Gerfaut, who could not help laughing at the importance the artist attached to his display of talent.

“In that case I shall risk my great run at the end of the first solo.  Two octaves from ‘E’ to ‘E’!  Zuchelli was good enough to give me a few points as to the time, and I do it rather nicely.”

“Madame would like to speak to Monsieur,” said a servant, who interrupted him in the midst of his sentence.

“Dolce, soave amor,” warbled the artist, softly, as he responded to the call from the lady of the house, trying to fix in his mind that run, which he regarded as one of the most beautiful flowers in his musical crown.

Everybody was seated, Madame de Bergenheim sat at the piano and Marillac stood behind her.  The artist selected one of the scores, spread it out on the rack, turned down the corners so that during the execution he might not be stopped by some refractory leaf, coughed in his deep bass voice, placed himself in such a manner as to show the side of his head which he thought would produce the best effect upon the audience, then gave a knowing nod to Gerfaut, who still stood gloomy and isolated in a far corner.

“We trespass upon your kindness too much, Monsieur,” said Madame de Bergenheim to him, when he had responded to this mute invitation; and as she struck a few chords, she raised her dark, brown eyes to his.  It was the first glance she had given him that day; from coquetry, perhaps, or because sorrow for her lover had softened her heart, or because she felt remorse for the extreme harshness of her note the night before, we must admit that this glance had nothing very discouraging in it.  Octave bowed, and spoke a few words as coldly polite as he would have spoken to a woman sixty years of age.