, venir les Francs!"

M'sieu quickened his pace down Bourbon Street as he sang the chorus to
himself in a thin old voice, and then, before he could see in the thick
fog, he had run into two young men.

"I--I--beg your pardon,--messieurs," he stammered.

"Most certainly," was the careless response; then the speaker, taking a
second glance at the object of the rencontre, cried joyfully:

"Oh, M'sieu Fortier, is it you? Why, you are so happy, singing your
love sonnet to your lady's eyebrow, that you didn't see a thing but the
moon, did you? And who is the fair one who should clog your senses so?"

There was a deprecating shrug from the little man.

"Ma foi, but monsieur must know fo' sho', dat I am too old for love
songs!"

"I know nothing save that I want that violin of yours. When is it to
be mine, M'sieu Fortier?"

"Nevare, nevare!" exclaimed M'sieu, gripping on as tightly to the case
as if he feared it might be wrenched from him. "Me a lovere, and to
sell mon violon! Ah, so ver' foolish!"

"Martel," said the first speaker to his companion as they moved on up
town, "I wish you knew that little Frenchman. He's a unique specimen.
He has the most exquisite violin I've seen in years; beautiful and
mellow as a genuine Cremona, and he can make the music leap, sing,
laugh, sob, skip, wail, anything you like from under his bow when he
wishes. It's something wonderful. We are good friends. Picked him up
in my French-town rambles. I've been trying to buy that instrument
since--"

"To throw it aside a week later?" lazily inquired Martel. "You are
like the rest of these nineteenth-century vandals, you can see nothing
picturesque that you do not wish to deface for a souvenir; you cannot
even let simple happiness alone, but must needs destroy it in a vain
attempt to make it your own or parade it as an advertisement."

As for M'sieu Fortier, he went right on with his song and turned into
Bayou Road, his shoulders still shrugged high as though he were cold,
and into the quaint little house, where Ma'am Jeanne and the white cat,
who always waited up for him at nights, were both nodding over the fire.

It was not long after this that the opera closed, and M'sieu went back
to his old out-of-season job. But somehow he did not do as well this
spring and summer as always. There is a certain amount of cunning and
finesse required to roll a cigar just so, that M'sieu seemed to be
losing, whether from age or deteriorat