needs destroy it in a vain attempt to make it your own or parade
it as an advertisement."

As for M'sieu Fortier, he went right on with his song and turned
into Bayou Road, his shoulders still shrugged high as though he
were cold, and into the quaint little house, where Ma'am Jeanne
and the white cat, who always waited up for him at nights, were
both nodding over the fire.

It was not long after this that the opera closed, and M'sieu went
back to his old out-of-season job. But somehow he did not do as
well this spring and summer as always. There is a certain amount
of cunning and finesse required to roll a cigar just so, that
M'sieu seemed to be losing, whether from age or deterioration it
was hard to tell. Nevertheless, there was just about half as
much money coming in as formerly, and the quaint little pucker
between M'sieu's eyebrows which served for a frown came oftener
and stayed longer than ever before.

"Minesse," he said one day to the white cat,--he told all his
troubles to her; it was of no use to talk to Ma'am Jeanne, she
was too deaf to understand,--"Minesse, we are gettin' po'. You'
pere git h'old, an' hees han's dey go no mo' rapidement, an' dere
be no mo' soirees dese day. Minesse, eef la saison don' hurry
up, we shall eat ver' lil' meat."

And Minesse curled her tail and purred.

Before the summer had fairly begun, strange rumours began to
float about in musical circles. M. Mauge would no longer manage