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⟨he⟩ found himself, but he in vain endeavoured ⟨to⟩ recognise any of the strange people by whom he was surrounded. Every time that ⟨he⟩ fixed his eyes upon any one of them, a ⟨sort⟩ of thin mist shrouded his face, and ⟨baffled⟩ the old man’s curiosity. While he was ⟨seeking⟩ to account for this strange ⟨circumstance⟩, he perceived a bass-viol hanging up ⟨of⟩ such exquisite beauty that he thought he ⟨should⟩ like to try his hand upon it, and ⟨display⟩ his skill to the other fiddlers. Raising his eyes to find the staircase leading to their gallery, what was his affright to recognise ⟨among⟩ them old Barnabas Matassart, who ⟨had⟩ been dead 30 years, and had given ⟨him⟩ his first lessons on the violin. 'Holy Virgin,' he cried, 'have pity on me!' At ⟨the⟩ same moment, musicians, dancers, and ⟨chateau⟩, all disappeared before his eyes.
On the next day, the inhabitants of Auffin, who more prudent than the fiddler, had delayed their departure till morning, found the old man extended at length at the foot of a gibbet, with a white fiddlestick in his hand.
'Father Matthews,' says one of them, 'has chosen rather a queer place to sleep in.' 'And a still queerer nail to hang his fiddle in,' answered another, 'his violin and bow are both strung on the toe of a hanged man.
