Leaving at the end of April, I forgot him altogether.  In the same month, however, of the following year I was again at Monte Carlo, and going one day to the concert found myself seated next this same old fellow.  The orchestra was playing Meyerbeer’s “Prophete,” and my neighbour was asleep, snoring softly.  He was dressed in the same grey suit, with the same straw hat (or one exactly like it) on his knees, and his hands crossed above it.  Sleep had not disfigured him—­his little white moustache was still brushed up, his lips closed; a very good and gentle expression hovered on his face.  A curved mark showed on his right temple, the scar of a cut on the side of his neck, and his left hand was covered by an old glove, the little forger of which was empty.  He woke up when the march was over and brisked up his moustache.

The next thing on the programme was a little thing by Poise from Le joli Gilles, played by Mons. Corsanego on the violin.  Happening to glance at my old neighbour, I saw a tear caught in the hollow of his cheek, and another just leaving the corner of his eye; there was a faint smile on his lips.  Then came an interval; and while orchestra and audience were resting, I asked him if he were fond of music.  He looked up without distrust, bowed, and answered in a thin, gentle voice:  “Certainly.  I know nothing about it, play no instrument, could never sing a note; but fond of it!  Who would not be?” His English was correct enough, but with an emphasis not quite American nor quite foreign.  I ventured to remark that he did not care for Meyerbeer.  He smiled.

“Ah!” he said, “I was asleep?  Too bad of me.  He is a little noisy—­I know so little about music.  There is Bach, for instance.  Would you believe it, he gives me no pleasure?  A great misfortune to be no musician!” He shook his head.

I murmured, “Bach is too elevating for you perhaps.”

“To me,” he answered, “any music I like is elevating.  People say some music has a bad effect on them.  I never found any music that gave me a bad thought—­no—­no—­quite the opposite; only sometimes, as you see, I go to sleep.  But what a lovely instrument the violin!” A faint flush came on his parched cheeks.  “The human soul that has left the body.  A curious thing, distant bugles at night have given me the same feeling.”  The orchestra was now coming back, and, folding his hands, my neighbour turned his eyes towards them.  When the concert was over we came out together.  Waiting at the entrance was his dog.

“You have a beautiful dog!”

“Ah! yes.  Freda. mia cara, da su mano!” The dog squatted on her haunches, and lifted her paw in the vague, bored way of big dogs when requested to perform civilities.  She was a lovely creature—­the purest brindle, without a speck of white, and free from the unbalanced look of most dogs of her breed.

“Basta! basta!” He turned to me apologetically.  “We have agreed to speak Italian; in that way I keep up the language; astonishing the number of things that dog will understand!” I was about to take my leave, when he asked if I would walk a little way with him—­“If you are free, that is.”  We went up the street with Freda on the far side of her master.