The Argosy — page 31: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Monsieur Silvain’s Secret. 2I know of men! You are living in a world of dreams, my poor child.” ‘If love and faith and honour are dreams, what is real in life?” she answered softly, as she closed the piano. ‘I am as sure of his fidelity as I am of my own, and I have confidence in the future. ‘Work, wait and trust,’ that is my motto.” Madame Evrard shook her head in emphatic disapproval, but was wise enough to say no more. In spite of her cheerful confidence, however, there were moments when the girl’s courage and spirits failed her; and her heart grew sick with hope deferred. It was in one of these moods of dejection that she set forth next morning on her daily round, but she attributed her depression to the influence of the weather. It was a grey, melancholy day; a chill mist clung to the surface of the river and drifted along the busy quays. As she crossed the Pont Neuf, Renée paused for a moment to drop a contribution into the leathern wallet of the old wooden-legged fiddler, familiarly known to Parisians by the soubriquet of “ Pere Joyeux.” For more years than anyone cared to count, he had haunted the same sheltered corner near the end of the bridge, scrap- ing away energetically on a battered fiddle, whose shrill merry notes made themselves heard above all the noise of traffic. Men might come and men might go, but Pére Joyeux’s fiddle “went on for ever,” in cheerful defiance of time and change. He had grown to be regarded as a public pensioner, and though he never asked for alms, the “gros sous” came dropping fast into the open wallet which was slung from his shoulder. Coins of any sort were not very plenti- ful with Renée, but she seldom omitted to contribute her mite in her daily pilgrimage across the bridge, accompanying the donation with a friendly little nod and smile and sometimes a few words of greeting. Having deposited her offering in silence to-day, she was passing on, when the old violinist called her back, breaking off in the middle of a bar, ‘* My little lady, you have given me a silver piece ; did you know?” “Yes, I have no coppers. Is it not a good one?” she added, for he had picked it out of the bag and was eyeing it curiously. He nodded, and stowed it carefully away in his waistcoat pocket. ‘* Quite good, and a new one, too! I shall keep it for luck,” he replied, and, tucking his fiddle under his grizzled beard once more, he broke into the tune of “ Monsieur et Madame Denis.” ‘‘Do you remember, Do you remember, The happy days when love was young?” Renée found herself humming the refrain of the foolish old song as she went her way. Ah, yes, too well she remembered those happy bye-gone days when all the world was glorified by the light ot comicbooks.conm