“Pas de bruit,” whispered a voice through the gloom.

Up four flights of wooden stairs we came to the door of a flat which was opened by a bearded man holding a lamp.

“Soyez les bienvenus!” he said, with a strongly foreign accent.

It was queer, the contrast between the beauty of his salon into which we went and the crudeness of the restaurant from which we had come.  It was a long room, with black wall-paper, and at the far end of it was a shaded lamp on a grand piano.  There was no other light, and the faces of the people in the room, the head of a Greek god on a pedestal, some little sculptured figures on an oak table, and some portrait studies on the walls, were dim and vague until my eyes became accustomed to this yellowish twilight.  No word was spoken as we entered, and took a chair if we could find one.  None of the company here seemed surprised at this entry of strangers—­for two of us were that—­or even conscious of it.  A tall, clean-shaven young man with a fine, grave face—­certainly not French—­was playing the violin, superbly; I could not see the man at the piano who touched the keys with such tenderness.  Opposite me was another young man, with the curly hair and long, thin face of a Greek faun nursing a violoncello, and listening with a dream in his eyes.  A woman with the beauty of some northern race sat in an oak chair with carved arms, which she clasped tightly.  I saw the sparkle of a ring on her right hand.  The stone had caught a ray from the lamp and was alive with light.  Other people with strange, interesting faces were grouped about this salon, absorbed in that music of the violin, which played something of spring, so lightly, so delicately, that our spirit danced to it, and joy came into one’s senses as on a sunlit day, when the wind is playing above fields of flowers.  Afterwards the cellist drew long, deep chords from his great instrument, and his thin fingers quivered against the thick strings, and made them sing grandly and nobly.  Then the man at the piano played alone, after five minutes of silence, in which a few words were spoken, about some theme which would work out with strange effects.

“I will try it,” said the pianist.  “It amuses me to improvise.  If it would not worry you—­”

It was not wearisome.  He played with a master-touch, and the room was filled with rushing notes and crashing harmonies.  For a little time I could not guess the meaning of their theme.  Then suddenly I was aware of it.  It was the tramp of arms, the roar of battle, the song of victory and of death.  Wailing voices came across fields of darkness, and then, with the dawn, birds sang, while the dead lay still.

The musician gave a queer laugh.  “Any good?”

“C’est la guerre!” said a girl by my side.  She shivered a little.