“You saved me; you see I live, old even in youth.”
“You have many years to number yet.”
“Perhaps not; I suffer too much! But tell me your name, perverse old man!”
“He who composed that noble work,” said the old man, pointing to the music, “was my father.”
“And have you not torn out the first leaf, on which was the title and name? You know I can guess nothing from the notes; they speak a language unknown to me. Speak, old friend; who are you?”
“The Old Musician.”
“Thus you are called by the few who know you in this great city. But you have another name. Why not tell it me?”
“Let me be silent,” entreated the old man. “I have sworn to reveal my name only to one initiated, if I meet such.”
The youth answered with a bitter smile. There was a pause of a few moments; the old man looked anxiously at him, as if noticing for the first time his sunken cheek, and other evidences of extreme ill health. At length he said—
“And have you no better fortune, Theodore, for the New year?”