When the first waltz was ended, it was easy to see how good music loosens the limbs.  The peasant lads, who had before been restlessly shuffling about on the benches, with their pipes in their mouths and their legs stretched out stiffly in front of them, were positively transformed, and, with their gay handkerchiefs hanging from the button-holes of their coats, capered about with the lasses so that it was a pleasure to look at them.  One of them, who evidently thought a deal of himself, fumbled in his waistcoat-pocket for a long while, that the others might see him, and finally brought out a little silver coin, which he tried to put into my hand.  It irritated me, although I had not a stiver in my pocket.  I told him to keep his pennies, I was playing only for joy, because I was glad to be among people once more.  Soon afterward, however, a pretty girl came up to me with a great tankard of wine.  “Musicians are thirsty folk,” she said, with a laugh that displayed her pearls of teeth gleaming so temptingly between her red lips that I should have liked to kiss her then and there.  She put the tankard to her charming mouth, and her eyes sparkled at me over its rim; she then handed it to me; I drained it to the bottom, and played afresh, till all were spinning merrily about me once more.

By and by the old peasants finished their game, and the young people grew tired and separated, so that gradually all was quiet and deserted in front of the inn.  The girl who had brought me the wine also walked toward the village, but she went very slowly, and looked around from time to time as if she had forgotten something.  At last she stopped and seemed to search for it on the ground, but as she stooped I saw her glance toward me from under her arm.  I had learned polite manners at the castle, so I sprang toward her and said, “Have you lost anything, my pretty ma’amselle?” She blushed crimson.  “Ah, no,” she said; “it was only a rose; will you have it?” I thanked her, and stuck the rose in my button-hole.  She looked very kindly at me, and said, “You play beautifully.”  “Yes,” I replied, “it is a gift from God.”  “Musicians are very rare in the country about here,” she began again, then stammered, and cast down her eyes.  “You might earn a deal of money here.  My father plays the fiddle a little, and likes to hear about foreign countries—­and my father is very rich.”  Then she laughed, and said, “If you only would not waggle your head so, when you play.”  “My dearest girl,” I said, “do not blush so—­and as for the tremoloso motion of the head, we can’t help it, great musicians all do it.”  “Oh, indeed!” rejoined the girl.  She was about to say more, when a terrible racket arose in the inn; the front door was opened with a bang, and a tall, lean fellow was shot out of it like a ramrod, after which it was slammed to behind him.