"And you have been here for a long time?"
he asked with curiosity.

"No: only a year. There were only ten
or twelve cabins when I arrived. I found
here, already, an Italian, who gave lessons
and concerts; but one day, happening to
quarrel with one of his pupils, who was
of rather a hasty temper, he was killed, and
I became the inheritor of his piano and his
connexion. Affairs go tolerably well. I practise
some little economies; I have purchased
a house; and I should be the happiest man
in the world if the celebrated Henry Herz
would accept my modest hospitality."

Behold Henry Herz ensconced the same
night with his brother musician.
Notwithstanding, however, that he was lodged in an
elegant apartment in the best part of the
house, he could not sleep. He thought of
nothing but the insecurity of the San
Francisco houses, of which his young host had
spoken. He felt a presentiment of danger,
and seriously begged that his bed might be
removed to another part of the building. The
young German laughed at him, but eventually
yielded, and the pair removed the bed.
Scarcely had they performed this operation,
than the side of the house on which Herz
had slept gave way, and fell with a tremendous
noise. The young pianist was in despair.
Herz tried to console him by saying—" Never
mind, my friend; everything is not lost as
long as we possess a piano." But the young
man had not even a piano. His only instrument
had perished in the ruins; a piano of
five octaves, of which two, it was true, refused
to give forth any sound; still it enabled him
to earn his living. Henry Herz, however, it
fortunately happened, had had sent before
him, to San Francisco, two of his most
beautiful pianos; and with their aid he
determined, on the morrow, to give a concert, the
proceeds to be devoted to the restoration of
his young friend's wall and fortunes. The
first thing necessary was to convey the pianos
to the theatre.

Henry Herz went out to make preparations
for his concert. As he passed before a
café, he was surrounded by three or four
persons who were unknown to him. He did
not even know the names of these gentlemen,
whose attire was something more than
neglected, but he had seen them often at the
French opera, and the Café de Paris. The
most amiable of the number now loaded him
with civilities and offers of service.

"Will you be so good," said the musician,
"as to tell me where I can find somebody to
carry my pianos to the theatre?"

"Certainly; it shall never be said that we
left a countryman in trouble. Come, Vicomte,
lend me a hand; we will carry Monsieur's
piano. Allow me to present to you the
Vicomte de Faubourg—a charming young
man, who loves to oblige his friends."

"This is a joke."

"Not at all, I assure you—nothing can be
more serious. "We must do in Rome as the
Romans do. If you find us two not enough,
we will go and call the Marquis."

But the Marquis did not reply; he was
occupied inside the café, in marking the points
for the billiard players.

One hour afterwards the two pianos were
at the theatre.

Herz returned to his host. " They have
carried my pianos without truck or cart, and
how much do you think they want for the job?"

"How much?"

"Three hundred piastres."

"That is the regular price."

"The devil! These obliging gentlemen
should have told me that they were nothing
but porters.''

"They do here all sorts of things in order to
live. Nobody degrades himself in California."

The next work was to find an orchestra.
This was not difficult. There were musicians
of all kinds—open to some little objections—
such as blindness on the part of the clarinet,
an incurable asthma on that of the cornet-à-
piston, and so forth. These artists demanded
between three and four pounds each for the
night: on the Boulevards they would have
obtained about two sous. Herz, without
hinting at their defects, promised to employ
them on some future occasion. He only
needed a band to fill up the intervals between
the parts of the concert. He next requested
his young host to conduct him to the office of
the principal journal, in order to make the
necessary announcement. The office in question
was situated on the ground-floor of a
house of two stories. Two enormous dogs
howled in the court, and were with difficulty
appeased by a negress, who conducted the
visitors into the presence of a tall and athletic
individual—the editor in chief. He was
remarkable for a formidable beard, that had
evidently never been sub-edited with the
scissors, a red shirt, and a pair of enormous
hunting boots. He wrote, sitting at a desk,
with a cudgel and a brace of pistols beside him.

The business of the visitors was soon
explained. They wished to advertise in the
journal.

"Certainly; the terms are only four
dollars a line for announcements of the kind."

Henry Herz opened his eyes a little, and
wondered what they would think of such
prices in Paris: but he looked at the
uncompromising aspect of the editor, at his cudgels,
and at his pistols, and finally paid the money.

The day of the concert arrived, and at an
early hour the theatre was besieged by an
immense crowd. Fierce, ill-looking fellows,
clad in the strangest of costumes, presented
themselves each instant for tickets, and were
deeply offended if they were offered second-rate
places at four dollars, instead of first-rate
places at eight. The money-taker had before
him a pair of scales. The public defiled past
him in order, and each in his turn placed in
his hand a black leather purse. The official