time. His clothes were scrupulously clean, his figure was good enough
for his years, only his legs were a little too short. His hands and feet
were remarkably delicate. "You are looking at me," he said, "and
thinking, too."

"I confess that I have some curiosity concerning your past," I replied.

"My past?" he repeated. "I have no past. Today is like yesterday, and
tomorrow like today. But the day after tomorrow and beyond--who can know
about that? But God will look after me; He knows best."

"Your present mode of life is probably monotonous enough," I continued,
"but your past! How did it happen--"

"That I became a street-musician?" he asked, filling in the pause that I
had voluntarily made. I now told him how he had attracted my attention
the moment I caught sight of him; what an impression he had made upon me
by the Latin words he had uttered. "Latin!" he echoed. "Latin! I did
learn it once upon a time, or rather, I was to have learned it and might
have done so. _Loqueris latine?"_--he turned to me; "but I couldn't
continue; it is too long ago. So that is what you call my past? How it
all came about? Well then, all sorts of things have happened, nothing
special, but all sorts of things. I should like to hear the story myself
again. I wonder whether I haven't forgotten it all. It is still early in
the morning," he continued, putting his hand into his vest-pocket, in
which, however, there was no watch. I drew out mine; it was barely nine
o'clock. "We have time, and I almost feel like talking." Meanwhile he
had grown visibly more at ease. His figure became more erect. Without
further ceremony he took my hat out of my hand and laid it upon the bed.
Then he seated himself, crossed one leg over the other, and assumed the
attitude of one who is going to tell a story in comfort.

"No doubt," he began, "you have heard of Court Councilor X?" Here he
mentioned the name of a statesman who, in the middle of the last
century, had under the modest title of a Chief of Department exerted an
enormous influence, almost equal to that of a minister. I admitted that
I knew of him. "He was my father," he continued.--His father! The father
of the old musician, of the beggar. This influential, powerful man--his
father! The old man did not seem to notice my astonishment, but with
evident pleasure continued the thread of his narrative. "I was the
second of three brothers. Both the others rose to high positions in the
government service, b