brewing down in the cellar, whilst those above burnt torches and made
merry.

A sigh was heard, a half-scream from one of the ladies, who felt ill;
but no one heeded it. The artist had now got quite down into the bass,
and his tireless fingers whirled the notes together, so that a cold
shudder crept down the backs of all.

But into that threatening, growling sound far below there began to come
an upward movement. The notes ran into, over, past each other--upward,
always upward, but without making any way. There was a wild struggle to
get up, as it were a multitude of small, dark figures scratching and
tearing; a mad eagerness, a feverish haste; a scrambling, a seizing with
hands and teeth; kicks, curses, shrieks, prayers--and all the while the
artist's hands glided upward so slowly, so painfully slowly.

'Anatole,' whispered Adèle, pale as death, 'he is playing Poverty.'

'Oh, these truffles!' groaned Anatole, holding his stomach.

All at once the room was lit up. Two servants with lamps and candelabra
appeared in the _portière_; and at the same moment the stranger finished
by bringing down his fingers of steel with all his might in a
dissonance, so startling, so unearthly, that the whole party sprang up.

'Out with the lamps!' shouted De Silvis.

'No, no!' shrieked Adèle; 'I dare not be in the dark. Oh, that dreadful
man!'