It came into his head to take him home with him, to feed him, to establish him somewhere—in other words, to lift him from his vile position.
“Well, are you tired?” asked Delesof, approaching him. Albert replied with a smile. “You have creative talent; you ought seriously to devote yourself to music, to play in public.”
“I should like to have something to drink,” exclaimed Albert, as though suddenly waking up.
Delesof brought him some wine, and the musician greedily drained two glasses.
“What splendid wine!” he exclaimed.
“What a lovely thing that Melancholie is!” said Delesof.
“Oh, yes, yes,” replied Albert with a smile. “But pardon me, I do not know with whom I have the honor to be talking; maybe you are a count or a prince. Couldn’t you let me have a little money?” He paused for a moment. “I have nothing—I am a poor man: I couldn’t pay it back to you.”
Delesof flushed, grew embarrassed, and hastened to hand the musician the money that had been collected for him.
“Very much obliged to you,” said Albert, seizing the money. “Now let us have some more music; I will play for you as much as you wish. Only let me have something to drink, something to drink,” he repeated, as he started to his feet.
Delesof gave him some more wine, and asked him to sit down by him.
“Pardon me if I am frank with you,” said Delesof. “Your talent has interested me so much. It seems to me that you are in a wretched