um a little! You call that drumming?" said Mychowski slowly. The two
men looked into each other's eyes and Daniel's drooped. "Don't do it
again; that's all. You woke me up," said Mychowski roughly, and he went
out of the room without hearing Daniel reply:

"No, Monsieur Mychowski, I will not do it again." ...

From that time on Mychowski was obsessed. He weighed the evidence and
questioned again and again the validity of his dream, in the margin
between sleep and waking. During the daytime he was inclined to think
that it had been an odd trance, music and all; but when he had drunk
brandy he grew superstitious and swore to himself that he really had
heard Daniel play; and he became so nervous that he never took his man
about with him. He drank too much, and kept such late hours that Daniel
gently scolded him; finally he played badly in public and then the
critical press fairly pounced upon him. Too long had he been King
Pianist, and his place was coveted by the pounding throng below. He
drank more, and presently there was talk of a decadence in the
marvellous art of M. Mychowski, the celebrated interpreter of Chopin.

All this time Mychowski watched Daniel, watched him in the day, watched
him in the night. He would prowl about his apartment after midnight,
listening for the tone of a piano, and, after telling Daniel that he
would be gone for the day, he would sneak back anxious and expectant.
But he never heard any music, and this, instead of calming his nerves,
made him sicker. "Why," he would ask himself, "if the fellow can play as
he does, why in the name of Chopin does he remain my servant? Is it
because his servant blood rules, or--His servant blood? Why, he may have
Polish blood in his veins, and such Polish!" Mychowski grew white at the
idea. He could not sleep at night for he felt lonely, and drank so much
that his manager declined to do business with him. Daniel prayed,
expostulated and even threatened to leave; but Mychowski kept on the
broad, downward path that leads to the mirage called Thirst.

One afternoon Mychowski sat at his accustomed table in the cafe. He was
sick and sullen after a hard night of drinking, and as he saw himself in
the mirror he bitterly thought, "He has the face, he has the figure,
and, by God, he plays like Chopin." A voice interrupted him.

"Bon jour, Monsieur Mychowski; but how can you duplicate yourself, for
just a minute ago I passed your apartment and heard such delicious pia