"He says that his throat is dried up, he would like some wine," replied the lackey who was standing near me.
"What? is he rather fond of the glass?"
"Yes, all that sort of people are," replied the lackey, smiling and pointing at the minstrel.
The minstrel took off his cap, and swinging his guitar went toward the hotel. Raising his head, he addressed the ladies and gentlemen standing by the windows and on the balconies, saying in a half-Italian, half-German accent, and with the same intonation that jugglers use in speaking to their audiences,—
"Messieurs et mesdames, si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chose, vous vous trompez: je ne suis qu'un pauvre tiaple."
He stood in silence a moment, but as no one gave him any thing, he once more took up his guitar and said,—
"À présent, messieurs et mesdames, je vous chanterai l'air du Righi."
His hotel audience made no response, but stood in expectation of the coming song. Below on the street a laugh went round, probably in part because he had expressed himself so strangely, and in part because no one had given him any thing.
I gave him a few centimes, which he deftly changed from one hand to the other, and bestowed them in his vest-pocket; and then, replacing his cap, began once more to sing the graceful, sweet Tyrolese melody which he had called l'air du Righi.
This song, which formed the last on his programme, was even better than the preceding, and from all sides in the wondering throng were heard sounds of approbation.