and the silvery plash of the fountain. The blaring brass brings out in
bold relief the mild warmth of the closing hours of those summer days,
so long and enervating in Paris; it seems as if one could hear nothing
else. The distant rumbling of wheels, the cries of children playing, the
footsteps of the promenaders are wafted away in those resonant, gushing,
refreshing waves of melody, as useful to the people of Paris as the
daily watering of their streets. On all sides the faded flowers, the
trees white with dust, the faces made pale and wan by the heat, all the
sorrows, all the miseries of a great city, sitting dreamily, with bowed
head, on the benches in the garden, feel its comforting, refreshing
influence. The air is stirred, renewed by those strains that traverse
it, filling it with harmony.

Poor Risler felt as if the tension upon all his nerves were relaxed.

"A little music does one good," he said, with glistening eyes. "My heart
is heavy, old fellow," he added, in a lower tone; "if you knew--"

They sat without speaking, their elbows resting on the window-sill,
while their coffee was served.

Then the music ceased, the garden became deserted. The light that had
loitered in the corners crept upward to the roofs, cast its last rays
upon the highest windowpanes, followed by the birds, the swallows, which
saluted the close of day with a farewell chirp from the gutter where
they were huddled together.

"Now, where shall we go?" said Planus, as they left the restaurant.

"Wherever you wish."

On the first floor of a building on the Rue Montpensier, close at hand,
was a cafe chantant, where many people entered.

"Suppose we go in," said Planus, desirous of banishing his friend's
melancholy at any cost, "the beer is excellent."

Risler assented to the suggestion; he had not tasted beer for six
months.

It was a former restaurant transformed into a concert-hall. There were
three large rooms, separated by gilded pillars, the partitions having
been removed; the decoration was in the Moorish style, bright red, pale
blue, with little crescents and turbans for ornament.

Although it was still early, the place was full; and even before
entering one had a feeling of suffocation, simply from seeing the crowds
of people sitting around the tables, and at the farther end, half-hidden
by the rows of pillars, a group of white-robed women on a raised
platform, in the heat and glare of the gas.

Our two friends had much d