night of the performances he climbed the stairs of the opera and sat,
an attentive listener to the orchestra, with one ear inclined to the
stage, and a quizzical expression on his wrinkled face. Then he would
go home, and pat Minesse, and fondle the violin.

"Ah, Minesse, dose new player! Not one bit can dey play. Such tones,
Minesse, such tones! All the time portemento, oh, so ver' bad! Ah,
mon chere violon, we can play." And he would play and sing a romance,
and smile tenderly to himself.

At first it used to be into the deuxiemes that M'sieu Fortier went,
into the front seats. But soon they were too expensive, and after all,
one could hear just as well in the fourth row as in the first. After a
while even the rear row of the deuxiemes was too costly, and the little
musician wended his way with the plebeians around on Toulouse Street,
and climbed the long, tedious flight of stairs into the troisiemes. It
makes no difference to be one row higher. It was more to the liking,
after all. One felt more at home up here among the people. If one was
thirsty, one could drink a glass of wine or beer being passed about by
the libretto boys, and the music sounded just as well.

But it happened one night that M'sieu could not even afford to climb
the Toulouse Street stairs. To be sure, there was yet another gallery,
the quatriemes, where the peanut boys went for a dime, but M'sieu could
not get down to that yet. So he stayed outside until all the beautiful
women in their warm wraps, a bright-hued chattering throng, came down
the grand staircase to their carriages.

It was on one of these nights that Courcey and Martel found him
shivering at the corner.

"Hello, M'sieu Fortier," cried Courcey, "are you ready to let me have
that violin yet?"

"For shame!" interrupted Martel.

"Fifty dollars, you know," continued Courcey, taking no heed of his
friend's interpolation.

M'sieu Fortier made a courtly bow. "Eef Monsieur will call at my 'ouse
on de morrow, he may have mon violon," he said huskily; then turned
abruptly on his heel, and went down Bourbon Street, his shoulders drawn
high as though he were cold.

When Courcey and Martel entered the gate of the little house on Bayou
Road the next day, there floated out to their ears a wordless song
thrilling from the violin, a song that told more than speech or tears
or gestures could have done of the utter sorrow and desolation of the
little old man. They walked softly