M.Josef Emanuel stood by them while they played; but he had not the tact or influence of his kinsman, who, under similar circumstances, would certainly have _compelled_ pupils of his to demean themselves with heroism and self-possession.

M.Paul would have placed the hysteric debutantes between two fires--terror of the audience, and terror of himself--and would have inspired them with the courage of desperation, by making the latter terror incomparably the greater: M.Josef could not do this.
Following the white muslin pianistes, came a fine, full-grown, sulky lady in white satin.

She sang.

Her singing just affected me like the tricks of a conjuror: I wondered how she did it--how she made her voice run up and down, and cut such marvellous capers; but a simple Scotch melody, played by a rude street minstrel, has often moved me more deeply.
Afterwards stepped forth a gentleman, who, bending his body a good deal in the direction of the King and Queen, and frequently approaching his white-gloved hand to the region of his heart, vented a bitter outcry against a certain "fausse Isabelle." I thought he seemed especially to solicit the Queen's sympathy; but, unless I am egregiously mistaken, her Majesty lent her attention rather with the calm of courtesy than the earnestness of interest.

This gentleman's state of mind was very harrowing, and I was glad when he wound up his musical exposition of the same.
Some rousing choruses struck me as the best part of the evening's entertainment.