he reached a stupid, overgrown building. It was numbered 5, and
was a shabby sort of pension. The Pole painfully hobbled up the
evil-smelling stairway, more crooked than a youth's counterpoint, and on
the floor next to the top halted, breathing heavily. The weather was
oppressive and he had talked too much to the young men at the brasserie.

"Ah, good boys all," he murmured, trying the door; "good lads, but no
talent, no originality. Ah!" The door yielded and Minkiewicz was at
home.

An upright piano, a bed, a shaky washstand and bureau, one feeble chair,
music--pounds of it--filled the chamber lighted by one candle. The old
man threw himself on the bed and sighed drearily. Then he went to the
piano, lifted the lid and ran his fingers over the keyboard. He sighed
again. He sat down on the chair and closed his eyes. He did not sleep,
for he arose in a few moments, took off his coat, and lighted a
cigarette in the flame of the candle. Minkiewicz again placed himself
before the instrument and played, but with silent fingers. He executed
the most intricate passages, yet the wind in the room was soundless. He
sat in his shirt-sleeves, his hat on his head, playing a Chopin concerto
in dumb profile, and the night wore on....

He was awakened in the morning by the entrance of a grimy garcon who
grinned and put on the floor an oblong basket. Minkiewicz stirred
restlessly.

"The absinthe--you have not forgotten it?" he questioned in a weak
voice.

"Ah, no, sir; never, sir, do I forget the green fairy for the great
musician, sir," was the answer, evidently a set one, its polite angles
worn away by daily usance.

The man grasped the proffered glass and swallowed, choking, the
absinthe. It did him good, for he sat up in bed, his greasy, torn
nightgown huddled about him, and with long, claw-like fingers he
uncovered the scanty breakfast. When he had finished it he wiped his
mouth and hands on the counterpane:

"Charge it as usual."

The waiter packed up the dishes, bade a bon jour, and with a mocking
gesture left the room. Minkiewicz always had his breakfasts charged.

At noon he crawled out of bed and dressed at a grave tempo. He wore
always the same shirt, a woollen one, and his wardrobe knew no change.
It was faded, out of fashion by a full half-century, and his only luxury
a silk comforter which he knotted loosely about his neck. He had never
worn a collar since Chopin's death. It was two of the clock when he
stumbled