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 Muller.
"_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 pa.s.se"...._
A dead stop on the part of Mdlle. Rosalie.
_"En fouillant le pa.s.se_"....
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_!"
So Mam"selle Rosalie wiped away her tears, and Madame Desjardins smoothed her ruffled feathers, and Monsieur Philomene warbled a plaintive little ditty in which "_coeur_" rhymed to "_peur_" and "_amours_" to "_toujours_" and "_le sort_" to "_la mort_" in quite the usual way; so giving great satisfaction to all present, but most, perhaps, to himself.
And now, hospitably anxious that each of her guests should have a chance of achieving distinction, Madame Marotte invited Mdlle. Honoria to favor the company with a dramatic recitation.
Mdlle. Honoria hesitated; exchanged glances with the Cyclops; and, in order to enhance the value of her performance, began raising all kinds of difficulties. There was no stage, for instance; and there were no footlights; but M. Dorinet met these objections by proposing to range all the seats at one end of the room, and to divide the stage off by a row of lighted candles.
"But it is so difficult to render a dramatic scene without an interlocutor!" said the young lady.
"What is it you require, _ma chere demoiselle?_" asked Madame Marotte.
"I have no interlocutor," said Mdlle. Honoria.
"No what, my love?"
"No interlocutor," repeated Mdlle. Honoria, at the top of her voice.
"Dear! dear! what a pity! Can"t we send the boy for it? Marie, my child, bid Jacques run to Madame de Montparna.s.se"s _appartement_ in the Rue" ...
But Madame Marotte"s voice was lost in the confusion; for Monsieur Dorinet was already deep in the arrangement of the room, and we were all helping to move the furniture. As for Mademoiselle"s last difficulty, the little dancing-master met that by offering to read whatever was necessary to carry on the scene.
And now, the stage being cleared, the audience placed, and Monsieur Dorinet provided with a volume of Corneille, Mademoiselle Honoria proceeded to drape herself in an old red shawl belonging to Madame Marotte.
The scene selected is the fifth of the fourth act of Horace, where Camille, meeting her only surviving brother, upbraids him with the death of Curiace.
Mam"selle Honoria, as Camille, with clasped hands and tragic expression, stalks in a slow and stately manner towards the footlights.
(Breathless suspense of the audience.)
M. Dorinet, who should begin by vaunting his victory over the Curiatii, stops to put on his gla.s.ses, finds it difficult to read with all the candles on the ground, and mutters something about the smallness of the type.
Mdlle. Honoria, not to keep the audience waiting, surveys the ex-G.o.d Seamander with a countenance expressive of horror; starts; and takes a turn across the stage.
"_Ma soeur,_" begins M. Dorinet, holding the book very much on one side, so as to catch the light upon the page, "_ma soeur, voici le bras_"....
"Ah, Heaven! my dear Mademoiselle, take care of the candles!" cries Madame Marotte in a shrill whisper.
... "_le bras qui venge nos deux freres, Le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires, Qui nous rend"_...
Here he lost his place; stammered; and recovered it with difficulty.
_"Qui nous rend maitres d"Albe"_....
Madame Marotte groans aloud in an agony of apprehension
"_Ah, mon Dieu!_" she exclaims, gaspingly, "if they didn"t flare so, it wouldn"t be half so dangerous!"
Here M. Dorinet dropped his book, and stooping to pick up the book, dropped his spectacles.
"I think," said Mdlle. Honoria, indignantly, "we had better begin again.
Monsieur Dorinet, pray read with the help of a candle _this_ time!"
And, with an angry toss of her head, Mdlle. Honoria went up the stage, put on her tragedy face again, and prepared once more to stalk down to the footlights.
Monsieur Dorinet, in the meanwhile, had s.n.a.t.c.hed up a candle, readjusted his spectacles, and found his place.
"_Ma soeur_" he began again, holding the book close to his eyes and the candle just under his nose, and nodding vehemently with every emphasis:--