nd, the young pifferari appeared to
treat him with greater deference than they did the other customers; the
little girl who accompanied them was particularly eager for his
approval.

In a little while we became very friendly with the old gentleman, and,
one evening, he said, "If you will be here next Wednesday, the pifferari
will give us something new."

On the evening in question he looked quite smart; he had evidently "fait
des frais de toilette," as our neighbours have it; he wore a different
coat, and his big white neckcloth was somewhat more starched than usual.
He seemed quite excited. The pifferari, on the other hand, seemed
anxious and subdued. The cafe was very full, for all the habitues liked
the old gentleman, and had made it a point of responding to his
quasi-invitation. They were well rewarded, for I have rarely heard
sweeter music. It was unlike anything we were accustomed to hear from
such musicians; there was an old-world sound about it that went straight
to the heart, and when we looked at the old gentleman amidst the genuine
applause after the termination of the first piece, there were two big
tears coursing down his wrinkled cheeks.

The pifferari came again and again, and though they never appealed to
him directly, we instinctively guessed that there existed some
connection between them. All our efforts to get at the truth of the
matter were, however, in vain, for the old gentleman was very reticent.

Meanwhile my young friend had passed his examinations, and shifted his
quarters to my side of the river. He did not abandon the Quartier-Latin
altogether, but my inquiries about the old musician met with no
satisfactory response. He had disappeared. Nearly two years went by,
when, one afternoon, he called. "Come with me," he said; "I am going to
show you a curious nook of Paris which you do not know, and take you to
an old acquaintance whom you will be pleased to see again."

The "curious nook" of Paris still exists to a certain extent, only the
pifferari have disappeared from it. It is situated behind the Pantheon,
and is more original than its London counterpart--Saffron Hill. It is
like a corner of old Rome, Florence, or Naples, without the glorious
Italian sun shining above it to lend picturesqueness to the rags and
tatters of its population; swarthy desperadoes with golden rings in
their ears and on their grimy fingers, their greasy, soft felt hats
cocked jauntily on their heads, or drawn over