There is nothing sweeter than a regular job and good
music to play, music into which one can put some soul, some
expression, and which one must study to understand. Dance music,
of the frivolous, frothy kind deemed essential to soirees, is
trivial, easy, uninteresting.
So M'sieu Fortier, Ma'am Jeanne, and the white cat lived a
peaceful, uneventful existence out on Bayou Road. When the opera
season was over in February, M'sieu went back to cigar-making,
and the white cat purred none the less contentedly.
It had been a benefit to-night for the leading tenor, and he had
chosen "Roland a Ronceveaux," a favourite this season, for his
farewell. And, mon Dieu, mused the little M'sieu, but how his
voice had rung out bell-like, piercing above the chorus of the
first act! Encore after encore was given, and the bravos of the
troisiemes were enough to stir the most sluggish of pulses.
"Superbes Pyrenees
Qui dressez dans le ciel,
Vos cimes couronnees
D'un hiver eternelle,
Pour nous livrer passage
Ouvrez vos larges flancs,
Faites faire l'orage,
Voici, venir les Francs!"
M'sieu quickened his pace down Bourbon Street as he sang the
chorus to himself in a thin old voice, and then, before he could
see in the thick fog, he had run into two young men.
"I--I--beg your pardon,--messieurs," he stammered.
"Most certainly," was the careless response; then the speaker,
taking a second glance at the object of the rencontre, cried
joyfully:
"Oh, M'sieu Fortier, is it you? Why, you are so happy, singing
your love sonnet to your lady's eyebrow, that you didn't see a
thing but the moon, did you? And who is the fair one who should
clog your senses so?"
There was a deprecating shrug from the little man.
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