He was not in the least like Bardini.  In appearance, Bardini suggested a Roumanian gypsy or a Portuguese sailor; his skin was deeply tanned, his hair was plastered on his low forehead in thick, oily curls, and his body, through much rich living on the scraps that fell from the tables of Girot’s and the Casino des Fleurs, was stout and gross.  He was the typical leader of an orchestra condemned to entertain a noisy restaurant.  His school of music was the school of Maxim’s.  To his skill with the violin he had added the arts of the head waiter, and he and the cook ran a race for popularity, he pampering to one taste, and the cook, with his sauces, pampering to another.  When so commanded, his pride as an artist did not prevent him from breaking off in the middle of Schubert’s Serenade to play Daisy Bell, nor was he above breaking it off on his own accord to salute the American patron, as he entered with the Belle of New York, or any one of the Gaiety Girls, hurrying in late for supper, with the Soldiers in the Park.  When he walked slowly through the restaurant, pausing at each table, his eyes, even while they ogled the women to whom he played, followed the brother Tzigane—­who was passing the plate—­and noted which of the patrons gave silver and which gave gold.

Edouard, the second violin, was all that Bardini was not, consequently he was entirely unsuited to lead an orchestra in a restaurant.  Indeed, so little did he understand of what was required of him that on the only occasion when Bardini sent him to pass the plate he was so unsophisticated as not to hide the sixpences and shillings under the napkin, and so leave only the half-crowns and gold pieces exposed.  And, instead of smiling mockingly at those who gave the sixpences, and waiting for them to give more, he even looked grateful, and at the same time deeply ashamed.  He differed from Bardini also in that he was very thin and tall, with the serious, smooth-shaven face of a priest.  Except for his fantastic costume, there was nothing about him to recall the poses of the musician:  his hair was neither long nor curly; it lay straight across his forehead and flat on either side, and when he played, his eyes neither sought out the admiring auditor nor invited his applause.  On the contrary, they looked steadfastly ahead.  It was as though they belonged to someone apart, who was listening intently to the music.  But in the waits between the numbers the boy’s eyes turned from table to table, observing the people in his audience.  He knew nearly all of them by sight:  the head waiters who brought him their “commands,” and his brother-musicians, had often discussed them in his hearing.  They represented every city of the world, every part of the social edifice:  there were those who came to look at the spectacle, and those who came to be looked at; those who gave a dinner for the sake of the diners, those who dined for the dinner alone.  To some the restaurant was a club; others ventured in counting the cost, taking