had grown humpbacked, and the contra bass was played by the celebrated Abbé Mervioli of Florence. A silver bribe—even under the Revolution—could bring golden music into the dungeons of the Temple.
The delicate serenade of Mozart!
It worked wonders here in the twilight dark—Palaces towered in their former royal splendor, and graciously listened to the amiable inspirations of the Salzburg Music-Lord. The old days came back, charmed into life, in defiance of the Marseillaise and Carmagnole. Around the dungeon walls sat noble lords in silk hose, and ladies in thread lace, elegant and aristocratic, in the midst of misery—these captives sacrificed to the fury of the mob. Knee crossed over knee, the great lords sat, and the ladies, graceful heads resting upon slender hands—nothing here but illustrious nobles. And over them floated the fragile melodies of Wolfgang Amadés, graceful and enchanting, like clouds of incense.
Near the end of the Alegro there comes a passage lovelier than all the rest of that lovely melody, as if suddenly the player had remembered a soft, little hand that stroked his cheek. When this passage came, Herr Primus heard behind him a whispered “Ah!” He whirled about—Blanchefleure. She held up one little hand as a signal that he should make no noise. Soon the music was over, and while the lords and ladies stopped to congratulate the players. Captain Thaller made his honorable proposal for the hand of the poor, pale, charming, little Blanchefleure. She listened to him with astonishingly arched and surprised brows,
