of Remenyi
Ede, who, he said, had just arrived and was about to take possession of
the adjoining apartment.

"Well, sir, is it to inform me of your name and your fervor that you
have come to prevent me from sleeping?"

"No," said the boy decidedly: "it is to ask you to dress yourself and go
out for a walk."

To the astonished exclamation of M. Franz he replied that his master
wished to practice, beginning early, and that it annoyed him to have any
one hear him.

"Go to the devil, you and your master!" naturally shouted our composer.

The boy became purple. "What!" he said, "send him to the devil?--him,
the great violinist, the successor of Czemak, of Bihary!"

"Is your master a gypsy?"

"No, but he is the only living violinist who possesses the authentic
tradition of gypsy music."

"I love this music; therefore I will get up and go down to the garden."

"Oh no, sir: go into the fields. See!" and he opened the window, "every
one has left the castle." And actually the master of the house and his
guests were all defiling through the garden-gate, having had only three
hours' sleep. M. Franz soon joined them, and heard from them the story
of Remenyi.

At the age of seventeen he had been attached to the person of Goergey
during the Hungarian war. Leaving his country with the emigration, he
had shared the exile of Count Teleki, Sandor and others; then passed
some time at Guernsey, where he knew Victor Hugo. He had afterward
performed with brilliant success in London, Hamburg, etc., and his
renown, after his return to Hungary, went on increasing. He traveled
about the country in every direction, astonishing nobles and peasants,
and playing with the same enthusiasm and poetry in barns as in palaces.
On hearing this our author slipped back to the garden, where he hid
himself to listen to Remenyi, who, to his great disgust, was playing a
concerto of Bach's.

At breakfast, Remenyi appeared, a very commonplace-looking man, full of
his own praises, and always speaking himself in the third person.
"Remenyi practiced well this morning," said he.

"Yes, a concerto of Bach's!" Franz.

Thereupon Remenyi asked for his violin, and they heard a marvelous
specimen of real Tzigany inspiration. Vanity disappeared--passion, nerve
and sentiment took its place. He had all the qualities demanded by
science, together with those of imagination. It was the passionate
inspiration of genius. After his performance was over, he went grave