His memory was surprising, and his whole soul seemed to be at the ends of his fingers; and he drew marvellous strains from an instrument which, in itself, was far from being a marvel.

He sang, too; he had a barytone voice, mellow and resonant.

After having hummed in a low tone some Roumanic melodies, he struck up one of his own national songs.

This he failed to finish; tears started in his eyes, emotion overpowered his voice.

He broke off abruptly, asking pardon for the weakness that had caused him to make himself ridiculous; but one glance at Mlle.