“He lies; I’ve seen them printed under another name.”
“Great God! I believe he’s beginning another one. That fellow ought to be forbidden to enter a salon.”
“Faith, yes! let’s call Vauvert, and tell him to make him shut up.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“I’ll tell you; we must have some young lady escorted to the piano; perhaps that will compel Gripaille to give up his place.”
The two men ran after Vauvert, who was in the utmost perplexity, for he did not know how to request his friend Gripaille to cease to entertain the company. At last, a tall, stout young woman consented to sing; young Martin arrived to play the accompaniments, and they were escorted to the piano. Gripaille pretended not to see what was going on, and played the prelude to his sixth comic song; but the noise in the dressing room, where a party of young men had assembled who could not find room in the salon, forced the guitarist to abandon the contest; he rose very ill-humoredly, despite the faint forced applause, and for lack of something better to do sat down in front of the little old woman, who had been partly in a trance and partly in heaven throughout his singing.
“Come,” she said to Gripaille, as he approached, “come, let me embrace you! You have enchanted me—exalted me to the skies—that is the word! Come, I entreat you!”
The wretched guitarist was compelled to submit; he embraced the old lady with a good grace; admirers are rare, and one has to pay dear for them.
My neighbor spied me and came to me with outstretched hand; but he halted in front of my fair unknown, to whom he made a sweeping bow. The devil of a fellow seemed to know everybody. I listened to their conversation.