the opera, but it would be turned into the hands of Americans, a
syndicate. Bah! These English-speaking people could do nothing
unless there was a trust, a syndicate, a company immense and
dishonest. It was going to be a guarantee business, with a
strictly financial basis. But worse than all this, the new
manager, who was now in France, would not only procure the
artists, but a new orchestra, a new leader. M'sieu Fortier grew
apprehensive at this, for he knew what the loss of his place
would mean to him.

September and October came, and the papers were filled with
accounts of the new artists from France and of the new orchestra
leader too. He was described as a most talented, progressive,
energetic young man. M'sieu Fortier's heart sank at the word
"progressive." He was anything but that. The New Orleans Creole
blood flowed too sluggishly in his old veins.

November came; the opera reopened. M'sieu Fortier was not
re-engaged.

"Minesse," he said with a catch in his voice that strongly
resembled a sob, "Minesse, we mus' go hongry sometime. Ah, mon
pauvre violon! Ah, mon Dieu, dey put us h'out, an' dey will not
have us. Nev' min', we will sing anyhow." And drawing his bow
across the strings, he sang in his thin, quavering voice, "Salut
demeure, chaste et pure."

It is strange what a peculiar power of fascination former haunts
have for the human mind. The criminal, after he has fled from
justice, steals back and skulks about the scene of his crime; the