But Monsieur Gripaille had not a pleasant voice--far from it; it was a continual medley of falsetto, shrill notes, and transitions of an octave, the whole accompanied by the thrumming of his thumb on the bass chord of the guitar, while he shook his head from side to side to add to his personal charms. However, the airs he sang were sometimes tuneful, the words amusing, and his performance diverted the company for a moment. But as he always sang the same things, we knew them by heart; and when he once had the guitar in his hands, it was impossible to make him put it down; after the ballad came a rondeau, after the rondeau a comic song, after the comic song another ballad, and so on. I was not bored, because I was talking with the new arrival, who seemed vastly astonished at all that she saw, and very glad to find me there; for she recognized me, and I saw that my presence was not disagreeable to her.
But soon I heard neighbor Raymond and the man with spectacles objurgating Gripaille because he did not stop singing.
"It's horrible! it's murderous! it's enough to put you to sleep!" said Raymond; "he'll never stop!"
"Oh! when he once has his guitar, we are lost! there's nothing to do but let him sing."
"And he doesn't want anyone to make a sound, either; not even to speak. See! he's glancing angrily in this direction now, because we're talking."
"I don't care if he is; it's altogether too much; tunes that he's sung to us twenty times!"
"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."
"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.