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Updated: May 10, 2025
By the end of the waltz De Savignac's eyes were shining. Boldi turned to our table and bowed. I have it!" I exclaimed. "Play the legend and the mad dance that follows the one that Racz Laczi loved the legend of the young man who went up the mountain and met the girl who jilted him." Boldi nodded his head and grinned with savage enthusiasm.
He watches those to whom he plays, singling out the one who needs his fiddle most, and to-night he was watching de Savignac. We had finished our steaming dish of lobster, smothered in a spiced sauce that makes a cold dry wine only half quench one's thirst, and were proceeding with a crisp salad when Boldi, with a rushing crescendo slipped into a delicious waltz.
Now that the theatres were out, it had become awake with the chatter with which these little midnight suppers begin suppers that so often end in confidences, jealousy and even tears, that need only the merriest tone of a gipsy's fiddle to turn to laughter. Boldi is an expert at this.
One night, early in June, after some persuasion, I forced him to go with me to one of those sparkling risquée little comedies at the Palais Royal which he loved, and so on to supper at the Café de la Paix, where that great gipsy, Boldi, warms the heart with his fiddle. The opera was just out, when we reached our table, close to the band.
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