arden, 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 difficulty in finding seats, and had to be
content with a place behind a pillar whence they could see only half of
the platform, then occupied by a superb person in black coat and yellow
gloves, curled and waxed and oiled, who was singing in a vibrating
voice--

Mes beaux lions aux crins dores,
Du sang des troupeaux alteres,
Halte la!--Je fais sentinello!

[My proud lions with golden manes
Who thirst for the blood of my flocks,
Stand back!--I am on guard!]

The audience--small tradesmen of the quarter with their wives and
daughters-seemed highly enthusiastic: especially the women. He
represented s