with solemn, silent steps he descended in
modulated chords until he reached an awful crevasse. With a howl the
tempest again unloosed, and in screeching accents the end came, came in
F minor. For many octaves Mychowski fell as a stone from a star, and as
he crashed into the very cellarage of hell he heard four snapping chords
and found himself on the floor of his bedroom....

"The F minor Ballade, of course," he cried; "and a nice ass I made of
myself last night. Oh, what a head! But I wonder how I came to dream of
the Ballade? Oh, yes, talking about it with Daniel, of course. What a
vivid dream! I heard every note, and thought the trees and the brook
were enjoying a duo, and--Bon Dieu! what's that?"

Mychowski, his face swollen and hair in disorder, slowly lifted himself
and sat on the edge of the bed as he listened.

"Who the devil is playing at this hour? But what's this? Am I dreaming
again? There goes that damnable Ballade." Mychowski rushed out of his
room, down the short hall and pushed open the door of the music-room.
The music stopped. Daniel was dusting some music at the end of the piano
as he came in.

"Ah! dear master, I hope you are not sick," said the faithful fellow,
dropping his feather-duster and running to Mychowski, who stood still
and only stared.

"Who was playing the piano?" he demanded. "The piano?" quoth Daniel.
"Yes, the piano. Was any one here?"

"No one has called this morning," answered Daniel, "except M. Dufour,
the patron of the cafe, who came to inquire after your health." "It's
none of his business," snapped Mychowski, whose nerves were on edge. "I
heard piano playing and I wasn't dreaming. Come, no nonsense, Daniel,
who was it?"

Just then his eyes fell on the desk; he strode to it and snatched the
music. "There," he hoarsely said, "there is damning proof that you have
lied to me; there is the Ballade in F minor by Chopin, and who, in the
name of Beelzebub, was playing it? Not you?"

Daniel turned white, then pink, and trembled like a cat. Mychowski, his
own face white, with cold shivers playing zither-wise up and down his
back, looked at the servant and, in a feeble voice, asked him, "Who are
you, man?" Daniel recovered himself and said in soothing tones, "Cher
maitre, you were up too late last night and you are nervous, agitated. I
ask your pardon, but I never did tell you that I drum a little on the
piano, and thinking you fast asleep I ventured on the liberty, and--"

"Dr