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like forty

angels and

not a

copper! He

had begun

another

tune--like

little

pluckings

at your

heart--tres

joli--tout

a fait

ecoeurant!

Ah, there

it was--a

monsieur

as usual

closing

the

window,

drawing

the

curtains!

Always

same

thing! The

violin and

the bow

were

thrust

back into

his hands;

and the

tall

strange

monsieur

was off as

if devils

were after

him--not

badly

drunk,

that one!

And not a

sou thrown

down! With

an uneasy

feeling

that he