nce-nez instead of
old-fashioned spectacles, active, gallant, and joyous, he passed in
Vernon for an artist. He thrummed on the piano and played on the
violin, and gave musical evenings where interpretations were given of
new operas.

He had even what is called a bit of a voice; nothing but a bit, a very
little bit of a voice; but he managed it with so much taste that cries
of "Bravo!" "Exquisite!" "Surprising!" "Adorable!" issued from every
throat as soon as he had murmured the last note.

He was a subscriber to a music-publisher in Paris, who addressed new
pieces to him, and he sent from time to time to the high society of
the town, little notes something in this style:

"You are invited to be present on Monday evening at the house of M.
Saval, notary, Vernon, at the first production of 'Sais.'"

A few officers, gifted with good voices, formed the chorus. Two or
three of the vinedressers' families also sang. The notary filled the
part of leader of the orchestra with so much correctness that the
bandmaster of the 190th regiment of the line said to him, one day, at
the _Cafe_ de l'Europe:

"Oh! M. Saval is a master. It is a great pity that he did not adopt
the career of an artist."

When his name was mentioned in a drawing-room, there was always
somebody found to declare: "He is not an amateur; he is an artist, a
genuine artist."

And two or three persons repeated, in a tone of profound conviction:

"Oh! yes, a genuine artist," laying particular stress on the word
"genuine."

Every time that a new work was interpreted at a big Parisian theater,
M. Saval paid a visit to the capital.

Now, last year, according to his custom, he went to hear "Henry VIII."
He then took the express which arrives in Paris at 4:30 p.m.,
intending to return by the 12:35 a.m. train so as not to have to sleep
at a hotel. He had put on evening dress, a black coat and white tie,
which he concealed under his overcoat with the collar turned up.

As soon as he had planted his foot on the Rue d' Amsterdam, he felt
himself in quite a jovial mood. He said to himself:

"Decidedly the air of Paris does not resemble any other air. It has in
it something indescribably stimulating, exciting, intoxicating, which
fills you with a strange longing to gambol and to do many other
things. As soon as I arrive here, it seems to me, all of a sudden,
that I have taken a bottle of champagne. What a life one can lead in
this city in the midst of artists! H