class="normal">"He--he--never spoils anything at the concerts, and I have consideration for him because, because,"--the capellmeister stammered, embarrassed, and stopped short. "But certainly it is an inexcusable irregularity and should be punished," he added.

De Sterny shrugged his shoulders. "Don't disturb yourself," he said, "but next time I hope I shall find my musical forces all together." He rapped on the desk.

His manner of conducting was characteristic. It recalled neither the fiery contortions of Verdi, nor the demoniac energy of Berlioz. His movements at first were quiet, almost weary, his countenance wore an expression of fixed concentration; suddenly his eyes lighted up, his lip quivered, his breast heaved as an exciting climax approached, he raised his arms higher and higher, like wings with which he would wrench himself free from earth; then all at once he collapsed with a look of dejected exhaustion.

"He is killing himself!" sighed the pianist, in a gush of sympathy. But the friend of Rossini said testily:

"He is an incarnate phrase like his own music, and just as full of grimaces!" The introductory figure had confirmed his aversion to de Sterny. "A pretentious fuss!" he muttered grimly, while the pianist with her hand on her heart declared she had "heard the fall of Avalanches!" The figure was repeated and left for future study, and then the Alto laid aside her furs, rose, threw the "friend of Rossini" one glance, drew her mouth into the regulation Oratorio smile, and began.

Upon a somewhat dramatic recitation there followed a meltingly sweet, inexpressibly mournful melody! Yes, really a melody! As simple, genuine and tender as a melody of Mozart, but adapted to the requirements of our modern pain craving ears by a few bitter-melancholy modulations. The friend of Rossini could scarcely believe his senses.

And now with every number,--a few bombastic interludes excepted--the beauties of "Satan" increased until at last at the "Duet of the Outcasts," a duet wherein the whole human race seems to weep for its lost heaven, the orchestra rose and broke into enthusiastic applause. De Sterny shed tears, assured them it was the happiest moment of his life, and the execution of the orchestra surpassed all his hopes, the pianiste fell into raptures, and the friend of Rossini growled, while he mechanically moved his hands in applause, "Where did he get that now? A plagiarism--a mass of plagiarism--but from whence?"

The duet was followed by a really hateful finale, which the more experienced among the musicians forgave for the sake of the Oratorio's otherwise uncommon beauties. The musical craft generally put their envy in their pockets, didn't understand, but made their bows as became them before a great mystery.

Next morning, de Sterny, in the coupe of the Countess C---- drove up the steep street Montague de la Cour. He was going to be served with an exquisite breakfast, by gold laced lackeys, and to let himself be buzzed about by mind perverting flatteries uttered in soft aristocratic voices. Suddenly he saw something that interested--that startled him.

Before one of the large red posters which announced the approaching Oratorio performance, stood a broad-shouldered man with worn-out boots, shabby clothes, and a soft felt hat dragged down over his ears.

A crowd of wagons blocked the way, and the coupe was obliged to stop. Again the virtuoso glanced at the shabby man; this time he saw him in profile. Strange! De Sterny turned pale as a corpse and leaned back shuddering in the soft green satin cushions of the carriage. Could it be that he knew the shabby man, or had known him before the brutalizing stamp of drink had disfigured his face?

Who knows? For the matter of that there was enough in the stranger's appearance to draw a glance and a shudder from any passer-by.

Round shoulders, a loose carriage, a slouching walk, and yet in the whole person and expression of broken-down vigor, and burned-out fire. A handsome face, with somewhat too full red lips, a short nose, powerful brow and eyes, the latter contracting and peering out like those of a wild animal that shuns the light, or like those of a man who will see nothing but the narrow path in which he is condemned to walk, or, perhaps, where he has condemned himself to walk, for life: in the whole countenance the marks of past anguish and present degradation.

Meanwhile the jam has given way, and while C---- cream colors, striking out to regain lost time, bring the great man rapidly up to the countess's palace, the shabby stranger enters one of those butter shops out of which, in the rear, a liquor shop usually opens, and calls for a glass of gin.

III

Who was he? What was he?

One of those riddles that heaven sends from time to time down to earth to be solved. But the earth occasionally finds the task too difficult and buries the riddle unread in her bosom.

He was born in Brussels, the son of a chorus singer in the theatre "de la Monnaie," and of one of those Hungarian Gipsy musicians, who appear now here now there in the capitals and small towns of Europe, always in bands, like troops of will-o'-the-wisps, carrying on their unwarranted and unjustifiable but bewitching musical nonsense. The mother, Margaretha von Zuylen, she was called, gave the boy the first name of his Hungarian father, who had disappeared before the child saw the light. The Flemish woman's son was named Gesa, Gesa von Zuylen. He had a dark-eyed face, framed by black curls; at the same time he was somewhat rounded in feature, and heavily built, indicating that he was a son of his flat, canal-intersected fatherland. His temperament was a strange mixture of dreamy inertness and fitful fire. The alley in which he grew up was called the Rue Ravestein, and stretched itself crooked and uneven, dirty and neglected, behind the Rue Montagne de la Cour, out toward St. Gudule. The nooks and corners of that region, albeit close to the brilliant centre of urban civilization, have an ill name, are picturesquely disreputable, and quite unrecognized by the good society of Brussels. No carriage can pass here, partly because the alleys are too narrow, partly because their original unevenness--no country in the world has a more hilly capital than flat Belgium--is increased here and there by a few rickety steps. Consequently nearly all the inhabitants extend their domestic establishments into the open air.

The active life and the dirt remind one of southern cities. Decaying vegetables, squirrel skins, paper flowers, old ball gloves, ashes, and other trash make themselves comfortable on the large irregular stones of the pavement, and through the middle slowly creep the dull and stagnant waters of the drain. Long-legged hyena-like dogs, with crooked backs and rough hides, that remind the visitor of Constantinople, belonging to nobody, snuff amongst the refuse; scissors-grinders, and other roofless vagabonds, lie, according to the time of year, in the shade or the sunshine; untidy women in dirty wrappers, with slovenly hair caught up on pins, lean out of windows and carry on endless conversations; others stand in the house doors, a puffy red fist on either hip, and look forth, blinking at time creeping by.

The houses are not alike, some are narrow and tall, some broad and low, as if crowded into the ground by their monstrous red-green roofs. In a few windows are flower pots, others are closely curtained. Small, not particularly tempting drinking shops, with dark red woodwork, on which is written in white letters, "Hier verkoopt men drank," frequently break the rows of dwellings. Any one of these alleys, in Gesa's youth, might have passed for all the rest, only the Rue