"My little Asticot," said he, "leading bears is better than calumny, but indiscretion is worse than both."
And that is all I heard of the matter. I never lifted up my voice in the Club again.
There was a curious black case on the top of a cupboard in his room which for some time aroused my curiosity. It was like no box I had seen before. But one afternoon Paragot took it down and extracted therefrom a violin which after tuning he began to play. Now although fond of music I have never been able to learn any instrument save the tambourine—my highest success otherwise has been to finger out "God save the Queen" and "We won't go home till morning" on the ocarina—and to this day a person able to play the piano or the fiddle seems possessed of an uncanny gift; but in that remote period of my fresh rescue from the gutter, an executant appeared something superhuman. I stared at him with stupid open mouth. He played what I afterwards learned was one of Brahms's Hungarian dances. His lank figure and long hair worked in unison with the music which filled the room with a wild tumult of movement. I had not heard anything like it in my life. It set every nerve of me dancing. I suppose Paragot found his interest in me because I was such an impressionable youngster. When, at the abrupt finale, he asked me what I thought of it, I could scarce stammer a word.
He gave me one of his queer kind looks while he tuned a string.
"I still wonder, my son, whether it would not be better for your soul that you should go on scullioning to the end of time."
"Why, Master?" I asked.
"Sacré mille diables," he cried, "do you think I am going to give you a reason for everything? You'll learn fast enough."
He laughed and went on playing, and, as I listened, the more godlike he grew.
"The streets of Paris," said he, returning the fiddle to its case, "are strewn with the wrecked souls of artists."
"And not London?"