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lamplight, a chatter of voices, and a tinkle of glasses indicated the bar. On the right opened the big sala, from which the beat and twang of music rang out with savage emphasis. Overhead, in the square of violet sky inclosed by the heavy tiled roof, the great Southern stars burned with a still glory of which the Northern world only dreams.

I lighted my cigarette, and was content for the moment to let my curiosity mellow. The groups in the court dispersed and reformed. The hollow thump of dancing feet upon the inevitable wooden platform added its note to the bell tones of the merimba and the warm resonance of guitars. What was that they were playing? The "Marseillaise." I laughed aloud. What a transformation, with its martial fervor transposed to a voluptuous dance movement, through which the merimba thrilled and warbled its graceful arabesques with the rapidity and fire of the Hungarian caimnbalom! It was both exasperating and laughable—Bellona turned bayadere. "Ah, but it must be a link in the chain of evidence that will lead me to the inspired and doubtless Gallic genius of whom I am in search," thought I.

Gathering the folds of my poncho about me, for at that altitude the nights are chill, I made my way to the ground floor, and taking a place on a worn bench by the sala entrance, settled myself and looked within. The room was vast and bare, with sepia shadows crowding the corners. From the ceiling a primitive chandelier depended—a simple disk upon which a dozen candles stood in their own grease. The musicians were in the farther portion of the hall, playing upon a double merimba, two guitars, and an instrument that puzzled me until I perceived it to be a common Italian harp, laid flat upon its back, operated by a musician, who played the strings, and two Indians, who, crouching on their haunches, beat time upon the wide, sonorous base. The total effect was inspiriting.

On the elevated stage a man and woman were performing a chiléna with solemn intensity. The lady, whose grave, almost mournful face was half clouded by a black riboso, calmly smoked a large cigar, while she waved a beckoning handkerchief at her cavalier, who, in response, threw himself into a frenzy of side steps and snapping fingers.

The changeling "Marseillaise" continued. I chuckled and watched. Presently some one seated himself beside me with an irritated sigh.

"Ah, Dieu de Dieu!"

I turned. The light fell full upon my companion's face—the dark, handsome face of a man of forty, whose white skin and stiff pompadour proclaimed him foreign among this people. I made my guess and addressed him in French.

"Quelle Marseillaise extraordinaire!"

"Ah," cried the man, excitedly—"French! Monsieur speaks French! Your hand! You are—you must be—the celebrated representative of the new Coffee Association who arrived to-night. And you speak French! What happiness! Tell me—do not think me crazy—but have you been in Paris, my beloved Paris, recently? Tell me—it is the same? Not changed?" Tears gathered in his snapping black eyes. "It is ten long, terrible, exiled years since I left it—for this—mon Dieu, for this!" He spread wide his hands in a gesture of despair.

"You are," said I—"you must be—the genius who prepared my dinner. Believe me, I have been wondering ever since how a cordon bleu, such as you are, should be here. I should never have believed it possible. You are a master! Ah, to whom do I say it? Does not the artist realize his excellence, feel his inspired power? Never shall I forget the surprise, the delight, of that first spoonful of soup. I closed my eyes and exclaimed, 'Am I not at the Tour d' Argent? Is this not the unsurpassed touch of Frédérique?'"

The man seized me by the shoulders, and, turning me to the light, scrutinized my face, his own contorted with excitement.

"You guessed it yourself? She did not divulge it to you? Ah, tell me the truth!"

I was bewildered. "No one has told me anything of you; but—you are not Frédérique—how, then?"

He interrupted me by clasping his hands in an ecstasy of delight. "Ah, it is too good, too much to hope, that my hand has not lost its cunning, my talent has not failed. Monsieur, you are sent to me by my good angel to keep me from despair. Oui, voyez vous, I had feared the worst. And this—this rabble here, what do they know, what can they understand? To cast