I was crossing the Place de Notre Dame, [Footnote: Place de Notre Dame.
The square in front of Notre Dame Cathedral.] mass was just over, and
the people were streaming out of the old cathedral. As usual, a row of
beggars was standing before the door, imploring the charity of the
church-goers. At the farther end, and at some distance from the others,
an old man stood with bent head and outstretched hat, and with painful
surprise I recognized my friend in his threadbare old coat without the
Abruzzi cloak, without the barrel-organ, without the monkey. My first
impulse was to go up to him, but an uneasy feeling of I do not know what
held me back; I felt that I blushed and I did not move from my place.
Every now and then a passer-by stopped for a moment and made as if to
search his pockets, but I did not see a single copper fall into the old
man's hat. The place became gradually deserted, and one beggar after
another trotted off with his little earnings. At last a child came out
of the church, led by a gentleman in mourning; the child pointed towards
the old man, and then ran up to him and laid a silver coin in his hat.
The old man humbly bowed his head in thanks, and even I, with my
unfortunate absent-mindedness, was very nearly thanking the little donor
also, so pleased was I. My friend carefully wrapped up the precious gift
in an old pocket-handkerchief, and stooping forward, as if still
carrying the barrel-organ on his back, he walked off.

I happened to be quite free that morning, and thinking that a little
walk before luncheon could do me no harm after the hospital air, I
followed him at a short distance across the Seine. [Footnote: Seine.
Paris is on the River Seine. "buon giorno": "Good day."] Once or twice I
nearly caught him up, and all but tapped him on the shoulder, with a
"Buon giorno, Don Gaetano!" Yet, without exactly knowing why, I drew
back at the last moment and let him get a few paces ahead of me again.