Indeed, all were similarly impressed by the mere way in which he sat
down and, without any preparation, struck a few chords here and there,
as if to wake the instrument.

Then he began to play--lightly, sportively, frivolously, as befitted the
situation. The melodies of the day were intermingled with fragments of
waltzes and ballads; all the ephemeral trifles that Paris hums over for
eight days he blended together with brilliantly fluent execution.

The ladies uttered exclamations of admiration, and sang a few bars,
keeping time with their feet. The whole party followed the music with
intense interest; the strange artist had hit their mood, and drawn them
all with him from the beginning. 'Der liebe Doctor' alone listened with
the Sedan smile on his face; the pieces were too easy for him.

But soon there came something for the German too; he nodded now and then
with a sort of appreciation.

It was a strange situation: the piquant fragrance that filled the air,
the pleasure-loving women--these people, so free and unconstrained, all
strangers to one another, hidden in the elegant, half-dark salon, each
following his most secret thoughts--thoughts born of the mysterious,
muffled music; whilst the firelight rose and fell, and made everything
that was golden glimmer in the darkness.

And there constantly came more for the doctor. From time to time he
turned and signed to De Silvis, as he heard the loved notes of 'unser
Schumann,' 'unser Beethoven,' or even of 'unser famoser Richard.'

Meanwhile the stranger played on, steadily and without apparent effort,