"Hello, M'sieu Fortier," cried Courcey, "are you ready to let me
have that violin yet?"
"For shame!" interrupted Martel.
"Fifty dollars, you know," continued Courcey, taking no heed of
his friend's interpolation.
M'sieu Fortier made a courtly bow. "Eef Monsieur will call at my
'ouse on de morrow, he may have mon violon," he said huskily;
then turned abruptly on his heel, and went down Bourbon Street,
his shoulders drawn high as though he were cold.
When Courcey and Martel entered the gate of the little house on
Bayou Road the next day, there floated out to their ears a
wordless song thrilling from the violin, a song that told more
than speech or tears or gestures could have done of the utter
sorrow and desolation of the little old man. They walked softly
up the short red brick walk and tapped at the door. Within,
M'sieu Fortier was caressing the violin, with silent tears
streaming down his wrinkled gray face.
There was not much said on either side. Courcey came away with
the instrument, leaving the money behind, while Martel grumbled
at the essentially sordid, mercenary spirit of the world. M'sieu
Fortier turned back into the room, after bowing his visitors out
with old-time French courtliness, and turning to the sleepy white
cat, said with a dry sob:
"Minesse, dere's only me an' you now."
About six days later, Courcey's morning dreams were disturbed by
the announcement of a visitor.
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