derstand music, Monsieur, you are a critic?" suggested the
young man timidly. Papa Peron was evidently a very explosive person;
it would not be polite or grateful to risk his anger.

For a little time the old man did not answer. When he spoke, it was in
a dreamy tone.

"Once I was famous as Bauquel is to-day--with this difference: that I
was an artist and he is a pretender, with not an ounce of artistry in
him."

"Was your instrument the violin, Monsieur?"

"Alas, no," was the old man's answer. "Chance led me to the piano. I
think I did well. But I have always regretted that I did not take up
the violin. It is the one instrument that can sing. The human voice
alone rivals it."

After a moment's pause, he added abruptly, "Are you very tired?"

No, Corsini was not in the least tired. The warmth, the meal of which
he had eaten sparingly from motives of delicacy, the Burgundy, had
warmed his blood. He was no longer the weak, pallid creature who had
set out from his lodging to earn a night's sustenance.

"Why do you ask, Monsieur?"

"If you are not really tired, I would love to hear that exquisite
romance again, with one or two brilliant variations. See, in that
corner, stands a piano of fairly good tone. I will accompany you, or
rather follow you."

Corsini, his blood aglow with the generous stimulant, the strange
circumstances, rose up, took his violin from its case, and drew the
bow lovingly across the strings. The Frenchman went across to the
piano, opened the lid, and struck a few chords with a touch that
revealed the hand of the master.

For the next ten minutes the room resounded with the divinest melody.
The deep notes of the piano mingled with the soaring strains of the
violin.

Corsini, strangely inspired, played as one possessed. And Papa Peron
caught every inflection, every subtle change of key. Never, during the
brief performance, was there a single discord. All the time the
Frenchman, old in years, had followed every mood of the younger
musician.

Papa Peron dropped his slender, artistic hands on the last chord. "My
young friend, you are great," he said quietly. "Success to you is only
a matter of time. Another glass of Chambertin?"

Nello drained it; he felt strangely elated. "Ah, Monsieur, but your
accompaniment was half the battle. When I faltered, you stimulated me.
You must have been a magnificent pianist."

Anita broke in in her gentle voice. The daughter of an English
mother, she spok