The Professor looked perfectly horrified. "Your husband! Are you then married?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, I am," I answered, "and I have a son."
"Voilà une surprise!" he cried. "And does your husband sing well?"
"Oh no, he does not sing at all."
"Then what does he do?"
I had to explain as well as I could my husband's position, to which Masset impatiently retorted, "Well, I only wish I had not taken such pains with your lessons!" which I thought more frank than polite, but the poor Professor was disappointed to find that he had been wasting his time on a mere amateur.
In order to practise singing without disturbing my old people, I took a little mansarde in the same house, and, when hidden there, the concierge had my order to say I was out. One afternoon, I went to my piano and was studying hard Gluck's "Orpheus," when suddenly, there was a violent knock at my door.
"Won't you let me in?" cried a voice. "Your stupid concierge insisted that you were out, but I heard your voice, which I recognised. Let me come in, I am Henri Litolff."
I opened the door, but I said, "You see that I have only a piano and one chair. I cannot receive visitors."
"I will take the chair, and will accompany you," was the answer. And then we had a charming improvised concert.