downstairs. At the doorway he met Bernard the hunchback
landlord.

"No money to-day, M. Minkiewicz? Well, I suppose not--terribly hard
times--no money. Will you have a little glass with me?" The musician
went into the dusky dining-room and drank a pony of brandy with the
good-natured Alsatian; then he shambled down the Rue Puteaux into the
Boulevard des Batignolles, and slowly aired himself.

"A great man, M. Minkiewicz; a poet, a pianist, a friend of M.
Chopin--ah! I admire him much, much," explained Bernard to a
neighbor....

It was very wet. But the slop and swish of the rain did not prevent the
brasserie of The Fallen Angels from being filled with noisy drinkers. In
one corner sat Minkiewicz. He was drinking absinthe. About him clustered
five or six good-looking young fellows. The chatter in the room was
terrific, but this group of disciples heard all the master said. He
scarcely spoke above a whisper, yet his voice cut the hot air sharply.

"You ask me, Henri, how well I knew Frederic. I could ask you in turn
how well did you know your mother? I was with him at Warsaw. I, too,
studied under Elsner. I accompanied him on his first journey to Vienna.
I was at his first concert. I trembled and cried as he played our
first--his first concerto in F minor. I wrote--we wrote the one in E
minor later. I proposed for the hand of Constance Gladowska for
Frederic, and he screamed when I brought back the answer. Ah! but I did
not tell him that Constance, Constantia, had said, 'Sir Friend, why not
let the little Chopin woo for himself?' and she threw back her head and
smiled into my eyes. I could have killed her for that subtle look. Yes;
I know she married an ordinary merchant. What cared I? I loved Frederic,
Frederic only. I never left his side. When it rained, rained as it is
raining to-night, he would tremble, and often beat me with his
spider-like hands, but I didn't mind it, for I was stronger then.

"I went with him to Paris. It was I who secured for him from Prince
Radziwill the invitation to the Rothschild's ball where he won his first
triumph. I made him practise. I bore his horrible humors, his mad,
irritating, capricious temper. I wrote down his music for him. Wrote it
down, did I say? Why, I often composed it for him; yes, I, for he would
sit and moon away at the piano, insanely wasting his ideas, while I
would force him to repeat a phrase, repeat it, polish it, alter it and
so on until the fabric of the compo