ly think of a Hindoo blowing the pipes in India, the charming
of snakes.... So, as we turned the corner into the Rue Jessaint, I
seemed to catch a faint glimpse of a scene on the lawn at
Versailles.... Louis XIV--it was the epoch of Cinderella!

But it wasn't a bag-pipe at all. That we discovered when we entered
the room, after passing through the bar in the front. The _bal_ was
conducted in a large hall at the back of the _maison_. In the doorway
lounged an _agent de service_, always a guest at one of these
functions, I found out later. There were rows of tables, long tables,
with long wooden benches placed between them. One corner of the floor
was cleared--not so large a corner either--for dancing, and on a small
platform sat the strangest looking youth, like Peter Pan never to grow
old, like the _Monna Lisa_ a boy of a thousand years, without emotion
or expression of any sort. He was playing an accordion; the bag-pipe,
symbol of the _bal_, hung disused on the wall over his head. His
accordion, manipulated with great skill, was augmented by sleigh-bells
attached to his ankles in such a manner that a minimum of movement
produced a maximum of effect; he further added to the complexity of
sound and rhythm by striking a cymbal occasionally with one of his
feet. The music was both rhythmic and ordered, now a waltz, now a tune
in two-four time, but never faster or slower, and never ending ...
except in the middle of each dance, for a brief few seconds, while the
_patronne_ collected a _sou_ from each dancer, after which the dance
proceeded. All the time we remained never did the musician smile,
except twice, once briefly when I sent word to him by the waiter to
order a _consommation_ and once, at some length, when we departed. On
these occasions the effect was almost emotionally illuminating, so
inexpressive was the ordinary cast of his features. A strange lad; I
like to think of him always sitting there, passively, playing the
accordion and shaking his sleigh-bells. He suggested a static picture,
a thing of always, but I know it is not so, for even the next summer
he had disappeared along with the _bal_ and now he may have been shot
in the Battle of the Marne or he may have murdered his _gigolette_ and
been transported to one of the French penal colonies.... An _apache,
en musicien!_ ... black cloth around his throat, hair parted in the
middle, _velours_ trousers; a _vrai apache_ I tell you, a cool,
cunning creature, shred