the saloon-keeper at the corner, then, tenderly carrying his
violin case, he trudged down Bourbon Street, a little old, bent,
withered figure, with shoulders shrugged up to keep warm, as
though the faded brown overcoat were not thick enough.

Down on Bayou Road, not so far from Claiborne Street, was a
house, little and old and queer, but quite large enough to hold
M'sieu Fortier, a wrinkled dame, and a white cat. He was home
but little, for on nearly every day there were rehearsals; then
on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, and twice Sundays
there were performances, so Ma'am Jeanne and the white cat kept
house almost always alone. Then, when M'sieu Fortier was at home,
why, it was practice, practice all the day, and smoke, snore,
sleep at night. Altogether it was not very exhilarating.

M'sieu Fortier had played first violin in the orchestra ever
since--well, no one remembered his not playing there. Sometimes
there would come breaks in the seasons, and for a year the great
building would be dark and silent. Then M'sieu Fortier would do
jobs of playing here and there, one night for this ball, another
night for that soiree dansante, and in the day, work at his
trade,--that of a cigar-maker. But now for seven years there had
been no break in the season, and the little old violinist was
happy. There is nothing sweeter than a regular job and good
music to play, music into which one can put some soul, some
expression, and which one must study to understand. Dance music,
of the frivolous, frothy kind deemed essential to soirees, is
trivial, easy, uninteresting.

So M'sieu Fortier, Ma'am Jeanne, and the white cat lived a