"No, no. You are a cynical creature! Don't you feel sympathy for any one? Would you do nothing for the poor?"
"I know a poor woman to whom I owe everything; that is my mother. Every farthing which I give to another is taken from her. When the world has given back to her all that she has lost, then I shall give to the world all that I possess; but until then everything belongs to my mother."
"Very good; you shall pay your mother. You shall have the five hundred francs; but for this you must play something super-excellent—Liszt's Mass or one of Handel's oratorios."
"What is the concert got up for? Is it to help a religious object? or is it for the papal zouaves?"
"Yes. I am arranging it."
"Then I can do nothing."
"Why so?"
"Why, because I shall not play for Garibaldi's enemies!"
"Oh, what a goose you are, to be sure! Who asks you to play for Garibaldi's enemies? You play for my friends."
But the young man kept repeating no, no, he wouldn't, and in his excitement he got up from his seat, and, throwing back his waistcoat, showed her that he wore a red shirt.