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Pierre Marie François de Sales Baillot, who was associated with Rode and Kreutzer in the compilation of the celebrated "Methode du Violon," was born at Passy, near Paris, in 1771, and became one of the most excellent violinists that France ever produced.
"Minesse," he said with a catch in his voice that strongly resembled a sob, "Minesse, we mus' go hongry sometime. Ah, mon pauvre violon! Ah, mon Dieu, dey put us h'out, an' dey will not have us. Nev' min', we will sing anyhow." And drawing his bow across the strings, he sang in his thin, quavering voice, "Salut demeure, chaste et pure."
Mon coeur volage, dit elle, N'est pas pour vous, garcon; Est pour un homme de guerre, Qui a barbe au menton. Lon, Lon, Laridon. Qui port chapeau a plume, Soulier a rouge talon, Qui joue de la flute, Aussi du violon. Lon, Lon, Laridon.
My violon keep the wolf off at night." "Look again, Jan! Didn't you come from there, or there, or there?" Cummins turned slowly, facing first to the east and Hudson's Bay, then to the south, and lastly to the west. There was something more than curiosity in the tense face that came back in staring inquiry to Jan Thoreau. The boy hunched his shoulders, and his eyes flashed.
Jacques leaped from the table, transported with rage. His face was convulsed. His eyes blazed. He snatched a carving-knife from the dresser behind him, and sprang at Corey. "TORT DIEU!" he shrieked, "MON VIOLON! Ah'll keel you, beast!" But he could not reach the enemy.
All the time portemento, oh, so ver' bad! Ah, mon chere violon, we can play." And he would play and sing a romance, and smile tenderly to himself. At first it used to be into the deuxiemes that M'sieu Fortier went, into the front seats. But soon they were too expensive, and after all, one could hear just as well in the fourth row as in the first.
Mon coeur volage, dit-elle, N'est pas pour vous, garcon; Est pour un homme de guerre, Qui a barbe au menton. Lon, Lon, Laridon. Qui ports chapeau a plume, Soulier a rouge talon, Qui joue de la flute, Aussi du violon. Lon, Lon, Laridon.
So you've got hold of the wrong story here, Monsieur Blacklegs, and one that won't serve you much in the violon." "It's true, I give you my word," said Jean. "They did their best to shoot me, but I was only wounded. Marie got me up here, and here I have been ever since." "Was there ever such a cool hand!" cried Plon wrathfully.
"It ees not lie that Jan Thoreau and hees violon come through the beeg snow," he replied softly. "It ees not lie!" There was more than gentleness in John Cummins' touch now. Jan could not understand it, but he yielded to it, and went back into the cabin. There was more than friendship in Cummins' eyes when he placed his hands again upon the boy's shoulders, and Jan could not understand that.
"NON," he answered, very decidedly; "dat piano, he vairee smart; he got plentee word, lak' de leetle yellow bird in de cage 'ow you call heem de cannarie. He spik' moch. Bot dat violon, he spik' more deep, to de heart, lak' de Rossignol. He mak' me feel more glad, more sorree dat fo' w'at Ah lak' heem de bes'!"
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