uch was the outward
presence of Daniel Dubois.

"He looks just like the description given by Niecks," murmured the
pianist. "Even the eyes are _piwne_, as we say in Poland, couleur de
biere.

"Yet you do not play the piano?" he continued. The man smiled and shook
his head. Terms were arranged, and the valet sent to Mychowski's rooms.

"And the mother, who was she?" Mychowski asked later.

"Pst!" enjoined his friend discreetly. Mychowski smiled, sighed, shook
his head, settled himself before a new piano and plunged into the
preludes, playing the entire twenty-five without pause, while business
was suspended in the ancient and honorable Maison Pleyel, so
captivating, so miraculous, was the poetic performance of this
commonplace and kind-hearted virtuoso....

Mychowski discovered in Daniel an agreeable servant. He was noiseless,
ubiquitous. He could make an omelette or sew on a button with woman's
skill. His small, well-kept hands knew no fatigue, and his master often
watched them, almost transparent, fragile and aristocratic, as they
shaved his rotund oily face. Daniel was admirable in his management of
the musical library, seeming to know where the music of every composer
had to be placed. Mychowski wondered how he contrived to find time to
learn so much and yet keep his hands from the keyboard. After the first
month Mychowski began to envy his servant the possession of such a
poetic personality.

"Now if I had such a face and figure how much better an effect I should
produce. I see the women laugh when I sit down to play, and if it wasn't
for my fat fingers where would I be?" Mychowski sighed. He had conquered
the musical world, but not his reflection in the mirror. He had made
some charming conquests, but his better guides had whispered to him that
it was his music, not his face, that had won the women. He was vain,
sensitive and without the courage of his nose, unlike Cyrano de
Bergerac. Nothing was lacking; talent, wealth, health, a capital
digestion and success! Had they not poured in upon him? From his
twentieth year he enjoyed the sunshine of popular favor and after ten
years was enamoured of it as ever. He almost felt bitter when he saw
Daniel's high-bred and delicate figure. He questioned him a hundred
times, but could find out nothing. Where had he been raised? Who was his
mother, and why did he select a servant's life? Daniel replied with
repose and managed to parry or evade all inquiries. He confessed,