En quatre-vingt onze,
Les cloches de bronze
Rêvaient."
Legay had quite a distinguished appearance as he stood singing before the piano. He wore a generously cut frock-coat, and his waistcoat exposed a spacious show of white shirt-front.
His long hair was carefully brushed back, his moustaches neatly waxed; altogether he was dainty and jaunty, and the ladies in the room made no concealment of their adoration.
The accompanist was a picturesque character. He was forty-five or fifty years of age; he had long white hair and a drooping moustache, and his heavy protruding eyes were suffused with tears evoked by the pathos of the song. While he gazed up into the singer's face with tear-filled eyes he was in another life, another world, where there was nothing but music and poetry unalloyed to constitute his heaven. For Legay sang charmingly, with an art and a feeling that were never obtrusive; and his audience was aesthetic. When he had finished he was cheered without stint, and he clearly showed how much the attention pleased him.