The evening wore on. The boar's head had disappeared; the array of small dishes was reduced to a mass of indistinguishable débris; one set of bottles had been emptied and replaced by another, and our pipe-bowls were aglow.
At this point the Count suggested that we should have music. The musicians, having enjoyed their fill of food and wine, and burned out a generous pipe, hastened to comply.
Taking up their instruments, they moved over before the hearth, where seats had been arranged for them in the form of a semicircle. They seated themselves, and began to put their instruments in tune.
It was a picturesque sight, these sons of the Black Forest seated in the dim light of the hall,—the old harper, bent with years, leaning over his instrument; next him a short, thick-set fellow, whom his comrades called Black Pierre, passively supporting his 'cello, and gazing about him curiously at the unfamiliar objects in the room; at his side the handsome, jovial-looking flute player, a picture of rugged health and careless good humor; while next in line came a man of medium stature, whose indistinctive features were rendered more so by the large creases in his cheeks, made by supporting his violin, which he held firmly beneath his square chin, while he tightened the horse-hair of his bow; and finally, to complete the semicircle, the clarinet player, a slight, sunburned boy, scarce turned eighteen, unmistakably a member of one of those numerous Gypsy bands whose camps are always to be found in the plateau of the Rothalps between Alsace and Lorraine.
The music began, and in justice to the vagabond players it must be said that it was of no ordinary degree of excellence. All the fire and pathos of their lawless natures was blended in the melody; now low and sad and tender as the reveries of old age itself; then rising and swelling into a burst of passion and longing that bewildered and electrified you; then in the midst of all this followed a lively measure, persuasive and careless, that in turn gave way to a waltz, foolish, palpitating, wanton.
I sat enchanted, my eyes roving over the faces of those around me. Odile, too, seemed to find the strains a fitting accompaniment to her thoughts, for she nodded approvingly at me from time to time, and once I thought I saw a tear hang on her eyelash. However, that may have been mere imagination, as I invariably become sentimental with my third bottle.
After a little the music began again. This time it was Schiller's "Brigands," and this more ambitious undertaking was rendered with a spirit and understanding hardly to be looked for in those who rarely aspired higher than the audiences of the inns, or the woodcutter's gatherings in the shambles of the forest.
I glanced once more about me. Everyone's eyes were fastened on the flooring. Even the frowzy scullion, who winced as he became conscious of my gaze, and passed the back of his hand across his nose apologetically, seemed lifted for the moment from his pots and kettles to loftier thoughts. Other pieces followed; there were those to suit every mood and fancy. The Count was enthusiastic in his applause at the end of each number, and demanded more, while the others expressed their satisfaction with clapping and stamps on the stone floor.
When at last the music came to an end, the players were rewarded with generous gold pieces by the master, and returned well satisfied to the table to wear away what little was left of the night, in wine and conversation.
The hour was late. The old clock ticked on in the chimney-corner, and groaned in its casing as its heavy weights ran out their length. The fire fell on the hearth; the great yule logs of the early evening had given out their substance, and now were crumbling away into ruddy embers and soft, flaky ashes. And still the merriment continued, still glasses were filled and drained, and still the call for songs and stories went on.