silence, the military band began to play under the trees in the garden.
They played one of those Italian operatic overtures which seem to have
been written expressly for public open-air resorts; the swiftly-flowing
notes, as they rise into the air, blend with the call of the swallows and
the silvery plash of the fountain. The blaring brass brings out in bold
relief the mild warmth of the closing hours of those summer days, so long
and enervating in Paris; it seems as if one could hear nothing else. The
distant rumbling of wheels, the cries of children playing, the footsteps
of the promenaders are wafted away in those resonant, gushing, refreshing
waves of melody, as useful to the people of Paris as the daily watering
of their streets. On all sides the faded flowers, the trees white with
dust, the faces made pale and wan by the heat, all the sorrows, all the
miseries of a great city, sitting dreamily, with bowed head, on the
benches in the garden, 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.