This infatuation had put a good deal of money in the pockets of the fortunate four, and if they had placed it in the Bank of New York it must have constituted a fairly large capital. But why should we not confess it? They had spent their money freely, had these Americanized Parisians! They never thought of saving, did these princes of the bow, these kings of the four strings! They enjoyed to the full this life of adventure, sure of meeting everywhere and always with a good welcome and a profitable engagement. They had travelled from New York to San Francisco, from Quebec to New Orleans, from Nova Scotia to Texas, living rather a Bohemian life—that Bohemia of the young which is the most ancient, the most charming, the most enviable, the most loved province of our old France! We are much mistaken if the moment has not come to introduce them individually to those of our readers who never had, and never will have, the pleasure of listening to them.

Yvernès—first violin—thirty-two years old, above the medium height, slight in build, fair, curly hair, smooth face, large black eyes, long hands, made to stretch to any extent over his Guarnerius, of elegant bearing, wearing a flowing cloak of some dark colour, and a high silk hat, somewhat of an attitudinizer perhaps, the most careless of the four, the least troubled about matters of interest, in all respects the artiste, an enthusiastic admirer of beautiful things, a virtuoso of great talent and great promise.

Frascolin—second violin—thirty years old, short, with a tendency to stoutness—which he by no means liked— brown in hair and brown in beard, big in the head, black eyes, and a long nose, marked at the side with red by the pinch of his gold eyeglasses—which he could not do without—a good fellow, good natured in every way, acting as the banker of the quartette, preaching economy, and never listened to, not at all envious of the success of his comrade, having no ambition of being promoted as solo violin, excellent musician nevertheless—and then wearing but a simple dust coat over his travelling suit.

Pinchinat—alto, commonly addressed as “his highness”—twenty-seven years of age, the youngest of the troupe, the most frolicsome too, one of those incorrigibles who are boys all their life, a fine head, intelligent eyes, always wideawake, hair approaching to red, pointed moustache, teeth white and sharp, tongue never still, never tired of puns and nonsense, and alert for repartee, invariably good-humoured, for ever making light of the discomforts that fell to his comrades, and therefore continually being reprimanded and taken up short by the chief of the Quartette Party.

For it had a chief, the violoncellist, Sebastien Zorn, chief by his talent, chief by his age, for he was fifty, short, rotund, hair abundant, and curled on the temples, moustache bristling, and losing itself in the whiskers which ended in points, complexion brick red, eyes gleaming through the glasses of his spectacles, which he doubled by means of an eyeglass when he read music, hands plump, the right accustomed to the undulatory movements of the bow, ornamented with large rings on the second and little finger.

This slight sketch is probably sufficient description for the man and the artiste, but one cannot with impunity for forty years hold a sonorous box between one’s knees. It affects one’s whole life, and the character is influenced. Most violoncellists are talkative and quick tempered, impetuous and domineering, and such was Sebastien Zorn, to whom Yvernès, Frascolin, and Pinchinat had willingly abandoned the management of their musical tour. They let him say what he liked, and do what he liked, for they understood him. Accustomed to his imperious manners, they laughed when he “outran the measure”—which is regrettable in the case of an executant, as was remarked by the irrepressible Pinchinat. The composition of the programmes, the direction of the routes, the correspondence with the managers, devolved on him, and permitted his aggressive temperament to manifest itself under a thousand circumstances. Where he did not interfere was with regard to the receipts and the management of the purse, which formed the particular duty of the second violin and chief accountant, the exact and careful Frascolin.

The quartette are now introduced as if they were before you on a platform. We know the types, if not very original, at least very distinct, of which it was composed. As the reader allows the incidents of this strange history to unroll themselves he will see to what adventures were destined these four Parisians, who, after receiving so many bravos throughout the States of the American Confederation, were to be transported.

But let us not anticipate, “not hurry the movement,” as “his highness” would exclaim, and let us have patience.

The four Parisians then, at eight o’clock this evening, were on a deserted road in Lower California, near the ruins of their overturned carriage. The chief of the quartette was violently angry. Why not? Yvernès pretended that he was descended from Ajax and Achilles, those two illustrious angry heroes of antiquity.

Let it not be forgotten that though Zorn might be bilious, Yvernès phlegmatic, Frascolin quiet, and Pinchinat of superabundant joviality, all were excellent comrades, and felt for each other like brothers. They were united by a bond which no dispute or self-love could break, by a community of taste originating from the same source. Their hearts, like well-made instruments, always kept in tune.

While Zorn fretted and fumed, and patted the case of his violoncello to make sure that it was safe and sound, Frascolin went up to the driver.

“Well, my friend,” he said; “what are we to do now, if you please?”

“What you can do when you have neither a carriage nor a horse, and that is to wait.”

“Wait for what comes,” said Pinchinat. “And if nothing comes?”

“We must look for it,” said Frascolin, whose practical mind never failed him. “Where?” roared Zorn, in a great state of agitation. “Where it is,” replied the driver.

“Is that the way you ought to answer?” said the ‘cellist, in a voice that gradually mounted towards the high notes. “What! A clumsy fellow who pitches us out, smashes his carriage, lames his horses, and then contents himself with saying, “Get out of it as you like!”

Carried away by his natural loquacity, Zorn began to launch forth into an interminable series of objurgations, all of them of no use, when Frascolin interrupted him, — “Allow me, my old Zorn.”

And then, addressing himself to the driver, he asked, —

“Where are we, my friend?”

“Five miles from Freschal.”

“A railway station?”

“No, a village near the coast.”

“Where can we find a carriage?”

“A carriage, nowhere—perhaps a cart.”

“A bullock cart, as in Merovingian times!” exclaimed Pinchinat.

“What does it matter?” said Frascolin.

“Eh!”  resumed Zorn. “Ask him if there is a hotel in this hole of a Freschal. I have had enough for tonight,”

“My friend,” asked Frascolin, “is there any hotel in Freschal?”

“Yes, the one where we were to change horses.”

“And to get there we have only to keep on the main road?”

“Straight on.”

“Let us be off!” said the ‘cellist.

“But,” said Pinchinat, “this poor fellow. It will be cruel to leave him here in distress. Look here, my friend, could you not come along if we were to help you?”

“Impossible!” replied the driver. “Besides, I prefer to remain here with my carriage. When daylight comes I shall see how to get out of this.”

“When we get to Freschal,” said Frascolin, “we can send you help.”

“Yes, the hotel-keeper knows me, and will not let me remain here in this state.”

“Shall we go?” asked the ‘cellist, picking up the case of his instrument.

“In a moment,” replied Pinchinat. “Just lend a hand to lift the driver to the side of the road.”

Pinchinat and Frascolin lifted him up, and placed him against the roots of a large tree, the lower branches of which formed a cradle of verdure as they fell.

“Shall we go?” roared Zorn for the third time, having hoisted his case on to his back by means of a double strap arranged for the purpose.

“We have done now,” said Frascolin, who then addressed the man, saying, —

“It is understood that the hotel-keeper at Freschal will send you help. Till then you want nothing, is that so?”

“Yes,” said the driver, “unless you happen to have a drink with you.”

Pinchinat’s flask happened to be full, and “his highness” willingly made the sacrifice.

“With that, my good man,” said he, “you will never catch cold to-night—inside you.”

A final objurgation from the ‘cellist decided his companions to make a start. Fortunately their luggage was in the train, instead of with them in the carriage. It might be delayed in getting to San Diego, but they would not have the trouble of carrying it to Freschal. They had enough to do to carry the violin cases, and perhaps rather too much with the ‘cello case. True, an instrumentalist worthy of the name never separates from his instrument any more than a soldier does from his arms, or a snail from its shell.

CHAPTER II.

To journey at night along an unknown road, amid an almost deserted country, where there are usually more malefactors than travellers, was enough to make them rather anxious. Such was the fate of the quartette.