Not a door, not a window opened.

“We are deceived,” said Yvernès, “it is not a village, it is a cemetery, where if they sleep their sleep is eternal. Vox clamantis in deserto.”

“Amen!” replied “his highness” in a deep voice, as if chanting in a cathedral.

What was to be done as the silence remained unbroken? Continue the journey towards San Diego? They were dying—that is the word—of hunger and fatigue. And then what road were they to follow without a guide through this dark night? Try to reach another village? Which one? According to the coachman there was no other village on this part of the coast. The best thing they could do was to wait for daylight. But to spend six hours without shelter beneath a sky overcast with heavy clouds threatening rain every instant— that was not to be thought of, even by artistes.

Pinchinat had an idea. His ideas were not always excellent, but they abounded in his brain. This one, however, obtained the approval of the wise Frascolin.

“My friends,” said he, “why should not what succeeded with a bear succeed with a Californian village? We tamed the plantigrade with a little music; let us wake up these rustics with a vigorous concert, in which we will not spare either the forte or the allegro.”

“We might try that,” replied Frascolin.

Zorn did not wait for Pinchinat to finish. His case was opened, his ‘cello upright on its steel point, for he had no seat, his bow in hand, ready to extract all the human voices stored up in the sonorous carcase.

Almost immediately his comrades were ready to follow him to the utmost limits of their art.

“Onslow’s quartette, in B flat,” said he. “Come.”

Onslow’s Quartette they knew by heart, and good instrumentalists did not want to see clearly to use their skilful fingers on the ‘cello, the violins, and the alto.

Behold them given up to their inspiration. Never perhaps have they played with more talent and more soul in the concert halls and theatres of the American Union. Space is filled with sublime harmony, and unless they were deaf how could human beings resist it? Had it been a cemetery, as Yvernès pretended, the tombs would have opened at the music’s charm, the dead would have risen, and the skeletons clapped hands.

But none of the houses opened; the sleepers did not awake. The piece ended in its powerful finale, yet Freschal gave no sign of life.

“Ah!” exclaimed Zorn, in a fury. “Is it like that? They want a serenade like their bears for their savage ears? Be it so! Let us have it over again; but you, Yvernès; play in D; you, Frascolin, in E; you, Pinchinat, in G. I will keep to B flat! and now then, with all your might.”

What cacophony! What ear-torture! It was as bad as the improvised orchestra directed by the Prince de Joinville in an unknown village in Brazil. It seemed as though they were playing Wagner backwards on “vinai-griuses.”

Pinchinat’s idea was excellent. What admirable execution could not obtain this absurdity did. Freschal began to awake. Lights appeared. Windows opened here and there. The natives of the village were not dead, for they gave signs of life. They were not deaf, for they heard and listened.

“They are. going to throw apples at us,” said Pinchinat, during a pause, for the time throughout had been scrupulously kept.

“So much the better,” said the practical Frascolin, “we will eat them.”

And at Zorn’s command the players suddenly shifted into their proper key, and ended with a perfect chord of four different notes.

No! They were not apples that came from the twenty or thirty open windows, but plaudits and cheers. Never had the Freschalian ears been filled with such musical delights! And there could be no doubt that every house was ready to receive with hospitality such incomparable virtuosos.

But while they were engaged in their performance, a spectator had approached them within a few yards without being seen. This personage had descended from a sort of electrical tram-car at one angle of the square. He was a man of tall stature, and somewhat corpulent, so far as could be judged in the darkness.

While our Parisians were asking if, after the windows the doors of the houses were going to open to receive them—which appeared at least to be rather uncertain— the new arrival approached, and said, in an amiable tone, —

“I am a dilettante, gentlemen, and I have the very great pleasure of applauding you.”

“For our last piece?” replied Pinchinat, ironically.

“No, gentlemen, for the first. I have seldom heard Onslow’s Quartette given with more talent.”

The personage was evidently a connoisseur.

“Sir,” said Sebastien Zorn, in the name of his companions, “we are much pleased by your compliments. If our second piece tortured your ears, it is—”

“Sir,” replied the unknown, interrupting a phrase that might have been a long one, “I have never heard a thing played out of tune with so much precision. But I understand why you did it. It was to wake up the natives of Freschal, who have already gone to sleep again. Well, gentlemen, what you endeavoured to obtain from them by this desperate means permit me to offer you.”

“Hospitality?” demanded Frascolin.

“Yes, hospitality. Unless I am mistaken I have before me the Quartette Party renowned throughout our superb America, which is never stingy in its enthusiasm.”

“Sir,” said Frascolin, “we are indeed flattered. And —this hospitality, where can we find it, thanks to you?”

“Two miles from here.”

“In another village?”

“No, in a town.”

“A town of importance?”

“Certainly.”

“Allow me,” observed Pinchinat. “We were told that there were no towns until we got to San Diego.”

“It is a mistake—which I cannot explain.”

“A mistake?” repeated Frascolin.

“Yes, gentlemen, and if you will accompany me I promise you a welcome such as artistes of your class are entitled to.”

“I am of opinion that we should accept it,” said Yvernès.

“And I share that opinion,” said Pinchinat.

“One moment!” said Zorn, “do not go faster than the leader of the orchestra.”

“Which means?” asked the American.

“That we are expected at San Diego,” replied Frascolin.

“At San Diego,” added the ‘cellist, “where the city has engaged us for a series of musical matinees, the first of which is to take place on Sunday afternoon.”

“Ah!” replied the personage, in a tone that betrayed extreme annoyance.

Then he continued, —

“That does not matter.