arpentier's _Louise_."

"I have never heard _Louise_."

"What! And you a student of Paris? Why, it's Charpentier's hymn to
Montmartre. Listen, now!" His voice quickened. "He's playing a bit out
of the night scene. He's playing the declaration of the _Noctambule_:

"Je suis le Plaisir de Paris!
Je vais vers les Amantes--que le Desir tourmente!
Je vais, cherchant les coeurs qu'oubli a le bonheur.
La-bas glanant le Rire, ici semant l'Envie,
Prechant partout le droit de tous a la folie;
Je suis le Procureur de la grande Cite!
Ton humble serviteur--ou ton maitre!"

He murmured the words below his breath, pausing as the music deepened
with the passion of the player and the sinister song poured into the
night.

Then came a break, a pause, and the music flowed forth again, but
curiously altered, curiously softened in character.

Max's fingers tightened. "Ah, but listen now, my friend!"

Blake turned to him in quick appreciation. "Good! Good! You are an
artist! That's Louise singing in the third act, on the day she is to be
Muse of Montmartre. It is up here in the little house her lover has
provided for her; it is twilight, and she is in the garden, looking down
upon all this"--he waved his hand comprehensively--"it is her
moment--the triumph and climax of love. Try to think what she is
saying!" He paused, and they stood breathless and enchained, while the
violin trembled under the hand of its master, vibrant and penetrating.

"What is it she says?" Max whispered the words.

Blake's reply was to murmur the burden of the song in the same hushed
way as he had spoken the song of the _Noctambule_.

"Depuis le jour ou je me suis donnee, toute fleurie semble ma
destinee.
Je crois rever sous un ciel de feerie, l'ame encore grisee de ton
premier baiser!"

But, abruptly--abruptly as a light might be extinguished--the music
ceased, and Max released Blake's hand.

"It is all most wonderful," he said; "but the words of that song--they
do not quite please me."

"Why? Have you never sung that '_l'ame encore grisee de ton premier
baiser_!'"

Then, as if half ashamed of the emotional moment, he gave a little
laugh, satirical and yet sad.

"Was there never a little dancer," he added, "never a little model in
all these years--and you so very ancient?"

The boy ignored the jest.

"I am not a believer in love," he said, evasively.

"Not a believer in love! Well, upo