There was time to look about while he was singing, though that was difficult, so strange and pathetic a picture he made. The walls of the room were dirty and bare, though relieved at rare intervals by sketches and signs. The light came from three gas-burners, and was reflected by a long mirror at one end of the room.
No attention had been paid to our entrance, except by the garçon, a heavy-set, bull-necked fellow, who, with a sign, bade us make no noise.
When the song had finished the audience broke into uproarious applause, shouting, "Bravo, mon vieux!" "Bien fait, Marquis!" and the clapping of hands and beating of glasses on the marble-topped tables and pounding of canes on the floor made a mighty din. The young singer, his cheeks glowing and his eyes blazing, modestly rolled up his music and sought his seat.
We were now piloted to seats by the garçon, who, when we had settled ourselves, demanded to know what we would drink. "Deux bocks!" he yelled across the room. "Deux bocks!" came echoing back from the counter, where a fat woman presided—knitting.
Several long-haired littérateurs—friends of Bishop's—came up and saluted him and shook his hand, all with a certain elegance and dignity. He, in turn, introduced me, and the conversation at once turned to art, music, and poetry. Whatever the sensational news of the day, whatever the crisis in the cabinet, whatever anything might have been that was stirring the people in the great outside commonplace world, these men and women gave it no heed whatever. What was the gross, hard, eager world to them? Did not the glories of the Golden Sun lend sufficient warmth to their hearts, and were not their vague aspirations and idle hopes ample stimulants to their minds and spirits? They quickly found a responsive mood in us, and this so delighted them that they ordered the drinks.
The presiding genius at the piano was a whitehaired, spiritual-looking man, whose snowy locks gave the only indication of his age; for his face was filled with the eternal youthfulness of a careless and contented heart. His slender, delicate fingers told of his temperament, his thin cheeks of his poverty, and his splendid dreamy eyes of the separate life that he lived.
Standing on the platform beside him was a man of a very different type. It was' the pianist's function to be merely a musician; but the other man—the musical director—was one from whom judgment, decision, and authority were required. Therefore he was large, powerful, and big- stomached, and had a pumpkin head, and fat, baggy eyes that shone through narrow slits. He now stepped forward and rang a little bell, upon which all talking was instantly hushed.
"Mesdames et messieurs," he said, in a large, capable voice, "J'ai l'honneur de vous annoncer que Madame Louise Leroux, nous lira ses dernières oeuvres—une faveur que nous apprécierons tous."
