The Knight

At Monte Carlo, in the spring of the year 189-, I used to notice an old

fellow in a grey suit and sunburnt straw hat with a black ribbon. Every

morning at eleven o'clock, he would come down to the Place, followed by

a brindled German boarhound, walk once or twice round it, and seat

himself on a bench facing the casino. There he would remain in the sun,

with his straw hat tilted forward, his thin legs apart, his brown hands

crossed between them, and the dog's nose resting on his knee. After an

hour or more he would get up, and, stooping a little from the waist, walk

slowly round the Place and return up hill. Just before three, he would

come down again in the same clothes and go into the casino, leaving the

dog outside.

One afternoon, moved by curiosity, I followed him. He passed through the

hall without looking at the gambling-rooms, and went into the concert. It

became my habit after that to watch for him. When he sat in the Place I

could see him from the window of my room. The chief puzzle to me was

the matter of his nationality.

His lean, short face had a skin so burnt that it looked like leather; his jaw

was long and prominent, his chin pointed, and he had hollows in his

cheeks. There were wrinkles across his forehead; his eyes were brown;

and little white moustaches were brushed up from the corners of his lips.

The back of his head bulged out above the lines of his lean neck and high,

sharp shoulders; his grey hair was cropped quite close. In the Marseilles

buffet, on the journey out, I had met an Englishman, almost his

counterpart in features--but somehow very different! This old fellow had

nothing of the other's alert, autocratic self-sufficiency. He was quiet and

undemonstrative, without looking, as it were, insulated against shocks

and foreign substances. He was certainly no Frenchman. His eyes, indeed,

were brown, but hazel-brown, and gentle--not the red-brown sensual eye

of the Frenchman. An American? But was ever an American so passive? A German? His moustache was certainly brushed up, but in a modest,

almost pathetic way, not in the least Teutonic. Nothing seemed to fit him.

I gave him up, and named him "the Cosmopolitan."

Leaving at the end of April, I forgot him altogether. In the same month,

however, of the following year I was again at Monte Carlo, and going one

day to the concert found myself seated next this same old fellow. The

orchestra was playing Meyerbeer's "Prophete," and my neighbour was

asleep, snoring softly. He was dressed in the same grey suit, with the

same straw hat (or one exactly like it) on his knees, and his hands

crossed above it. Sleep had not disfigured him--his little white moustache

was still brushed up, his lips closed; a very good and gentle expression

hovered on his face. A curved mark showed on his right temple, the scar

of a cut on the side of his neck, and his left hand was covered by an old

glove, the little forger of which was empty. He woke up when the march

was over and brisked up his moustache.

The next thing on the programme was a little thing by Poise from Le joli

Gilles, played by Mons. Corsanego on the violin. Happening to glance at

my old neighbour, I saw a tear caught in the hollow of his cheek, and

another just leaving the corner of his eye; there was a faint smile on his

lips. Then came an interval; and while orchestra and audience were

resting, I asked him if he were fond of music. He looked up without

distrust, bowed, and answered in a thin, gentle voice: "Certainly. I know

nothing about it, play no instrument, could never sing a note; but fond of

it! Who would not be?" His English was correct enough, but with an

emphasis not quite American nor quite foreign. I ventured to remark that

he did not care for Meyerbeer. He smiled.

"Ah!" he said, "I was asleep? Too bad of me. He is a little noisy--I know

so little about music. There is Bach, for instance. Would you believe it, he

gives me no pleasure? A great misfortune to be no musician!" He shook

his head.

I murmured, "Bach is too elevating for you perhaps."

"To me," he answered, "any music I like is elevating. People say some

music has a bad effect on them. I never found any music that gave me a