“You go too fast; you hurry me. I never saw the music before, and to sing Italian at sight is devilish hard.”
I was sure that he had been studying his part for a fortnight. Despite their efforts, they were obliged to leave the duet half sung.
“We will sing it the next time,” said Monsieur Chamonin; “we shall be surer of ourselves then, for the piece needs to be carefully studied. Rossini is very chromatic.”
“That’s so,” said Vauvert, stuffing his nose with snuff, a part of which remained on his shirt front; “it’s a pity you didn’t finish it, for I thought it was very pretty.”
“We’ll go and hear it once more at the Bouffons.”
“They had better stay there,” said Gripaille, in an undertone, delighted by their misadventure.
“For my part, I don’t care for Italian,” said Madame Vauvert. “I never can hear anything but tchi and tcha; and it doesn’t amuse me in the least.”
“Oh! what blasphemy, madame! not like Rossini!”
“Who’s Rossini, uncle?” inquired the youthful clerk, who had stolen into the salon. “Seems to me I’ve seen that name, in Don Quixote.”
“The idiot, to mistake Rosinante for Rossini! Go and wash the glasses, booby, and don’t mix in the conversation again.”