might indeed make this prophecy: The cultivation of Europe will perish one day because of this shop-keeper thinking of the United States. Because of this unfortunate apeing, we shall become just one of America’s intellectual colonies; not much better than Greece since Mummius destroyed inelegant Rome. Our artists will become like those old ones—able only to wave broken wings of longing. The Americans will then visit with a holy abhorrence the ruins of our life, which was much too fine for them. Europe was original for the last time in May 1789.” When he had finished speaking the soldiers shoved him forward.
“Friends,” he said gently,—“I do not need any suggestions from hostlers,” and disappeared within the dungeon of the Temple.
“What does the fool mean?” queried Quintus.
Primus thought about it, but he couldn’t make it clear. Then he asked permission to speak to the little citizeness widow, Massimel.
“Go down into the cellar and find her,” laughed Quintus. “I don’t dare let her come out.”
When he reached the cellar he was amazed, because what he saw surpassed the power of the imagination. Soft, secretive sounds of violin, flute, and bass-viol flattered the ear, and slipped along the wet walls, like a little kitten on a silk dress. They were playing upon instruments that had been smuggled in. M.Miradoux, first violinist of the Royal Opera, had the violin; the flute, Vicomte Chantigny, whose breath could perform just such wonders as the breath of the west wind. With the tenor-viol the Strasburg canon, Avenarius,
