ned
it.

"Oh, no! He's been awake for some time," said Courvoisier. The child saw
him, and stretched out its arms toward him.

"_Na! junger Taugenichts!_" he said, taking it up and kissing it. "Thou
must stay here till I come back. Wilt be happy till I come?"

The answer made by the mournful-looking child was a singular one. It put
both tiny arms around the big man's neck, laid its face for a moment
against his, and loosed him again. Neither word nor sound did it emit
during the process. A feeling altogether new and astonishing overcame
me. I turned hastily away, and as I picked up my violin-case, was amazed
to find my eyes dim. My visitors were something unprecedented to me.

"You are not compelled to go to the theater to-night, you know, unless
you like," I suggested, as we went down-stairs.

"Thanks, it is as well to begin at once."

On the lowest landing we met Frau Schmidt.

"Where are you going, _mein Herren_?" she demanded.

"To work, madame," he replied, lifting his cap with a courtesy which
seemed to disarm her.

"But the child?" she demanded.

"Do not trouble yourself about him."

"Is he asleep?"

"Not just now. He is all right, though."

She gave us a look which meant volumes. I pulled Courvoisier out.

"Come along, do!" cried I. "She will keep you there for half an hour,
and it is time now."

We rushed along the streets too rapidly to have time or breath to speak,
and it was five minutes after the time when we scrambled into the
orchestra, and found that the overture was already begun.

Though there is certainly not much time for observing one's fellows when
one is helping in the overture to "Tannhauser," yet I saw the many
curious and astonished glances which were cast toward our new member,
glances of which he took no notice, simply because he apparently did not
see them. He had the finest absence of self-consciousness that I ever
saw.

The first act of the opera was over, and it fell to my share to make
Courvoisier known to his fellow-musicians. I introduced him to the
director, who was not von Francius, nor any friend of his. Then we
retired to one of the small rooms on one side of the orchestra.

"_Hundewetter!_" said one of the men, shivering. "Have you traveled far
to-day?" he inquired of Courvoisier, by way of opening the conversation.

"From Koeln only."

"Live there?"

"No."

The man continued his catechism, but in another direction.

"Are you a friend of Helfen's?"