It was about nine o’clock in the morning, and thus far not a single call had come in.  The sun was shining very brightly in a sky washed clear by a night of rain, the morning mists were rising from the wood, and up and down the very muddy street walked little groups of soldiers.  I drew up the rickety stool and began to play the waltz from “The Count of Luxembourg.”  In a short time I heard the sound of tramping on the stairs voices.  In came three poilus—­a pale boy with a weary, gentle expression in his rather faded blue eyes; a dark, heavy fellow of twenty-five or six, with big wrists, big, muscular hands, and a rather unpleasant, lowering face; and a little, middle-aged man with straightforward, friendly hazel eyes and a pointed beard.  The pale, boyish one carried a violin made from a cigar box under his arm, just such a violin as the darkies make down South.  This violin was very beautifully made, and decorated with a rustic design.  I stopped playing.

“Don’t, don’t,” cried the dark, big fellow; “we haven’t heard any music for a long time.  Please keep on.  Jacques, here, will accompany you.”

“I never heard the waltz,” said the violinist; “but if you play it over for me once or twice, I’ll try to get the air—­if you would like to have me to,” he added with a shy, gentle courtesy.

So I played the rather banal waltz again, till the lad caught the tune.  He hit it amazingly well, and his ear was unusually true.  The dark one had been in Canada and was hungry for American rag-time. “’The Good Old Summer Time’—­you know that?  ’Harrigan’—­you know that?” he said in English.  The rag-time of “Harrigan” floated out on the street of Montauville.  But I did not care to play things which could have no violin obligato, so I began to play what I remembered of waltzes dear to every Frenchman’s heart—­the tunes of the “Merry Widow.”  “Sylvia” went off with quite a dash.  The concert was getting popular.  Somebody wanted to send for a certain Alphonse who had an occarina.  Two other poilus, men in the forties, came up, their dark-brown, horseshoe beards making them look like brothers.  Side by side against the faded paper on the sunny wall they stood, surveying us contentedly.  The violinist, who turned out to be a Norman, played a solo—­some music-hall fantasy, I imagine.  The next number was the ever popular “Tipperaree,” which every single poilu in the French army has learned to sing in a kind of English.  Our piano-violin duet hit off this piece even better than the “Merry Widow.”  I thanked Heaven that I was not called on to translate it, a feat frequently demanded of the American drivers.  The song is silly enough in the King’s English, but in lucid, exact French, it sinks to positive imbecility.

“You play, don’t you?” said the violinist to the small bearded man.

“A little,” he replied modestly.

“Please play.”

The little man sat down at the piano, meditated a minute, and began to play the rich chords of Rachmaninof’s “Prelude.”  He got about half through, when Zip-bang! a small shell burst down the street.  The dark fellow threw open the French window.  The poilus were scurrying to shelter.  The pianist continued with the “Prelude.”