one--there will soon be
none left."

M. Lupot flushed up to the ears. He felt very much inclined to say to
the celebrated performer, "Sir, I didn't ask you here to break all the
chords of my piano. Let the instrument alone if you don't like it, but
don't hinder other people from playing on it for our amusement."

But the good M. Lupot did not venture on so bold a speech, which would
have been a very sensible speech nevertheless; and he stood quietly
while his chords were getting smashed, though it was by no means a
pleasant thing to do.

Mademoiselle Celanire goes up to her father. She is distressed at the
way her piano is treated; she has no opportunity of playing her air; but
she hopes to make up for it by singing a romance, which one of their old
neighbours is going to accompany on the guitar.

It is not without some difficulty that M. Lupot obtains silence for his
daughter's song. At sight of the old neighbour and his guitar a
smothered laugh is visible in the assembly. It is undeniable that the
gentleman is not unlike a respectable Troubadour with a barrel organ,
and that his guitar is like an ancient harp. There is great curiosity to
hear the old gentleman touch his instrument. He begins by beating time
with his feet and his head, which latter movement gives him very much
the appearance of a mandarin that you sometimes see on a mantelpiece.
Nevertheless Mademoiselle Lupot essays her ballad; but she can never
manage to overtake her accompanier, who, instead of following the
singer, seems determined to make no alteration in the movement of his
head and feet. The ballad is a failure--Celanire is confused, she has
mistaken her notes--she loses her recollection; and, instead of hearing
his daughter's praises, M. Lupot overhears the young people
whispering--"It wouldn't do in a beer-shop."

"I must order in the tea," thought the ex-stationer--"it will perhaps
put them into good-humour."

And M. Lupot rushes off to give instructions to the maid; and that old
individual, who has never seen such a company before, does not know how
to get on, and breaks cups and saucers without mercy, in the effort to
make haste.

"Nannette, have you got ready the other things you were to bring in with
the tea?--the muffins--the cakes?"

"Yes, sir"--replied Nannette--"all is ready--every thing will be in in a
moment."

"But there is another thing I told you, Nannette--the sandwiches."

"The witches, sir?--the sand?"--enquired t