arriages. He exchanged a hearty salutation with the
saloon-keeper at the corner, then, tenderly carrying his violin case,
he trudged down Bourbon Street, a little old, bent, withered figure,
with shoulders shrugged up to keep warm, as though the faded brown
overcoat were not thick enough.

Down on Bayou Road, not so far from Claiborne Street, was a house,
little and old and queer, but quite large enough to hold M'sieu
Fortier, a wrinkled dame, and a white cat. He was home but little, for
on nearly every day there were rehearsals; then on Tuesday, Thursday,
and Saturday nights, and twice Sundays there were performances, so
Ma'am Jeanne and the white cat kept house almost always alone. Then,
when M'sieu Fortier was at home, why, it was practice, practice all the
day, and smoke, snore, sleep at night. Altogether it was not very
exhilarating.

M'sieu Fortier had played first violin in the orchestra ever
since--well, no one remembered his not playing there. Sometimes there
would come breaks in the seasons, and for a year the great building
would be dark and silent. Then M'sieu Fortier would do jobs of playing
here and there, one night for this ball, another night for that soiree
dansante, and in the day, work at his trade,--that of a cigar-maker.
But now for seven years there had been no break in the season, and the
little old violinist was happy. There is nothing sweeter than a
regular job and good music to play, music into which one can put some
soul, some expression, and which one must study to understand. Dance
music, of the frivolous, frothy kind deemed essential to soirees, is
trivial, easy, uninteresting.

So M'sieu Fortier, Ma'am Jeanne, and the white cat lived a peaceful,
uneventful existence out on Bayou Road. When the opera season was over
in February, M'sieu went back to cigar-making, and the white cat purred
none the less contentedly.

It had been a benefit to-night for the leading tenor, and he had chosen
"Roland a Ronceveaux," a favourite this season, for his farewell. And,
mon Dieu, mused the little M'sieu, but how his voice had rung out
bell-like, piercing above the chorus of the first act! Encore after
encore was given, and the bravos of the troisiemes were enough to stir
the most sluggish of pulses.

"Superbes Pyrenees
Qui dressez dans le ciel,
Vos cimes couronnees
D'un hiver eternelle,
Pour nous livrer passage
Ouvrez vos larges flancs,
Faites faire l'orage,
Voici