understood. But that he should weep!

I smiled sympathetically. "We suffered from it over here as well," I
remarked.

"I did not know," he said, in English that reproved my French, "it was
sung in London also--'Partant pour le Moulin'?"

"Under another name," I told him, "it was an epidemic."

Clearly, the organ had stirred distressing memories in him, for though
we fell to chatting, I could see that he neither talked nor dined with
any relish. As luck would have it, too, the instrument of torture
resumed its repertoire well within hearing, and when "Partant pour le
Moulin" was reached again, he clasped his head.

"You find it so painful?" I inquired.

"Painful?" he exclaimed. "Monsieur, it is my 'istory, that comic tune!
It is to me romance, tragedy, ruin. Will you hear? Wait! I shall range
my ideas. Listen:"

* * * * *

It is Paris, at Montmartre--we are before the door of a laundress. A
girl approaches. Her gaze is troubled, she frowns a little. What ails
her? I shall tell you: the laundress has refused to deliver her washing
until her bill is paid. And the girl cannot pay it--not till Saturday--
and she has need of things to put on. It is a moment of anxiety.