"Oh, M'sieu Fortier, is it you? Why, you are so happy, singing
your love sonnet to your lady's eyebrow, that you didn't see a
thing but the moon, did you? And who is the fair one who should
clog your senses so?"

There was a deprecating shrug from the little man.

"Ma foi, but monsieur must know fo' sho', dat I am too old for
love songs!"

"I know nothing save that I want that violin of yours. When is
it to be mine, M'sieu Fortier?"

"Nevare, nevare!" exclaimed M'sieu, gripping on as tightly to the
case as if he feared it might be wrenched from him. "Me a
lovere, and to sell mon violon! Ah, so ver' foolish!"

"Martel," said the first speaker to his companion as they moved
on up town, "I wish you knew that little Frenchman. He's a
unique specimen. He has the most exquisite violin I've seen in
years; beautiful and mellow as a genuine Cremona, and he can make
the music leap, sing, laugh, sob, skip, wail, anything you like
from under his bow when he wishes. It's something wonderful. We
are good friends. Picked him up in my French-town rambles. I've
been trying to buy that instrument since--"

"To throw it aside a week later?" lazily inquired Martel. "You
are like the rest of these nineteenth-century vandals, you can
see nothing picturesque that you do not wish to deface for a
souvenir; you cannot even let simple happiness alone, but must