in the
Solferino Garden he paid his tribute of flowers at the monuments of
Maupassant and Flaubert. Ferval was modern in his tastes; he believed
nothing in art was worth the while which did not date from the
nineteenth century.

Deplorably bored, he passed his hotel on the Quai and turned into the
Rue Jeanne d'Arc, which led by the facade of the Palais de Justice. He
had studied it carefully, and it did not, this dull afternoon in
September, hold his interest long; he sauntered on, not feeling strong
enough to light a cigarette. Decidedly, Rouen was become tiresome. He
would go back to Paris by the evening train--or to Dieppe, thence to
London, on the morning boat. Presently he found himself nearing the
Porte de la Grosse Horloge. Through its opening poured vivacious working
girls and men in blouse and cap, smoking, chattering, gesticulating. It
was all very animated, and the wanderer tried to enjoy the picture. Then
over against the crenellated wall, under the tablet bearing the quaint
inscription picked out in choice Latin, Ferval saw a tall girl. Her bare
head would not have marked her in a crowd where motley prevailed; it was
her pose that attracted him,--above all, her mediaeval face, with its
long, drooping nose which recalled some graven image of Jean Goujon. Her
skin was tanned; her hair, flame-coloured, was confined by a classic
fillet; her eyes, Oriental in fulness, were light blue--Ferval had
crossed to the apparition and noted these things. She did not return his
stare, but continued to gaze at the archway as if expecting some one.
Young, robust, her very attitude suggested absolute health; yet her
expression was so despairing, her eyes so charged with misery, that
involuntarily he felt in his pocket for money. And then he saw that in
her hand she held a tambourine. She wore a faded uniform of the
Salvation Army.

Suddenly an extraordinary noise was heard; music, but of such a peculiar
and excruciating quality that the young man forgot his neighbour and
wondered what new pain was in store for his already taut nerves. The
shops emptied, children stopped their games, and the Quarter suspended
its affairs to welcome the music. Ferval heard rapturous and mocking
remarks. "Baki, Baki, the human orchestra!" cried one gossip to another.
And the reverberating music swelled, multifarious and amazing as if a
military band from piccolo to drum were about to descend the highway. A
clatter and bang, a sweet droning an