ridiculous, opened fire to show the newcomer how the land lay at the
table-d'hote.

"It is a very long time since we have heard anything about the opera
on 'Mahomet'!" cried he, with a smile at Marianna. "Can it be that
Paolo Gambara, wholly given up to domestic cares, absorbed by the
charms of the chimney-corner, is neglecting his superhuman genius,
leaving his talents to get cold and his imagination to go flat?"

Gambara knew all the company; he dwelt in a sphere so far above them
all that he no longer cared to repel an attack. He made no reply.

"It is not given to everybody," said the journalist, "to have an
intellect that can understand Monsieur Gambara's musical efforts, and
that, no doubt, is why our divine maestro hesitates to come before the
worthy Parisian public."

"And yet," said the ballad-monger, who had not opened his mouth but to
swallow everything that came within his reach, "I know some men of
talent who think highly of the judgments of Parisian critics. I myself
have a pretty reputation as a musician," he went on, with an air of
diffidence. "I owe it solely to my little songs in _vaudevilles_, and
the success of my dance music in drawing-rooms; but I propose ere long
to bring out a mass composed for the anniversary of Beethoven's death,
and I expect to be better appreciated in Paris than anywhere else. You
will perhaps do me the honor of hearing it?" he said, turning to
Andrea.

"Thank you," said the Count. "But I do not conceive that I am gifted
with the organs needful for the appreciation of French music. If you