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Updated: May 8, 2025
Within, M'sieu Fortier was caressing the violin, with silent tears streaming down his wrinkled gray face. There was not much said on either side. Courcey came away with the instrument, leaving the money behind, while Martel grumbled at the essentially sordid, mercenary spirit of the world.
Down on Bayou Road, not so far from Claiborne Street, was a house, little and old and queer, but quite large enough to hold M'sieu Fortier, a wrinkled dame, and a white cat.
I feel lak' I done sol' my child. I cannot go at l'opera no mo', I t'ink of mon violon. I starve befo' I live widout. My heart, he is broke, I die for mon violon." Courcey left the room and returned with the instrument. "M'sieu Fortier," he said, bowing low, as he handed the case to the little man, "take your violin; it was a whim with me, a passion with you.
M'sieu Fortier had played first violin in the orchestra ever since well, no one remembered his not playing there. Sometimes there would come breaks in the seasons, and for a year the great building would be dark and silent.
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