Paragot drew his bow across the strings.
"There is nothing in this comical universe I don't laugh at, my little Blanquette," said he. "I am like good old Montaigne—I rather laugh than weep, because to laugh is the more dignified."
Laripet struck a chord on the piano. Paragot joined in and played three bars. Then he stopped short. There was not the vestige of a laugh on his face. It was deadly white, and his eyes were those of a man who sees a ghost.
The four bright happy beings, two ladies and two men who had just entered the garden and at whom his stare was directed, took no notice, but followed a bowing maître d'hôtel to a table that had been reserved for them.
I sprang to the platform, on the edge of which I had been squatting at Blanquette's feet.
"Are you ill, Master?"
He started. "Ill? Of course not. Pardon, Monsieur Laripet. Recommençons."
He plunged into the merry tune and fiddled with all his might, as if nothing had happened. But I saw his nostrils quivering and the sweat running down his face into his beard.