[IC} Monkeys, violins, and violence

"Ah, oui, madame," responds the young painter, all his scoffing courage fleeting from his frame. He backs a step away and sketches an apologetic courtesy. "I do apologize, my speech was quite intemperate. I did not mean to ... to offend, I meant only a little jest ... I am so sorry, indeed!" He looks ready to cry, or flee, or both. Everyone knows that the Richelieus are ready with their blades!

"Alors," exclaims the elderly player, "this is my sole livelihood and sustenance! Can you not have merci on a haggard wretch like me?"

"miséricorde!" exclaims the withered woman. "Mon Dieu! Have you no charity!" She swings the violin wildly at Marcel.

"Here!" responds the ancienne. She roughly pushes the instrument toward Pierre, who automatically accepts it. Tears springing to her eyes, the bereft musician awkwardly turns and begins to stomp away - though, given her age, the dramatic steps are more like a rapid and aggressive shuffle.

"ils m'appellent Hunched Lucille," responds the retreating woman. "I live around here." The condition of her garments suggests that her residence is transient.

If not arrested, she quickly moves away.

Someone among the tables begins a slow clap, which is briefly echoed, but as you look around to see who's doing it, it ceases.

The patissier bustles out of the storefront with a steaming carafe of coffee. "Si vous plait!" he utters. "Would you have a cup of java on the house? We are glad to see the back of Hunched Lucille. So to say."

You return to your dingy headquarters. The Lilac is absent - perhaps pursuing a lead in the mysterious case of the leaking wine bottles.

Along the way, you notice a recently-posted handbill. It is stuck with chewing gum to the stone wall of one of the less disreputable rooming houses. It advertises a string concerto, to be put on at the Opera House, this evening. An occasion for all society! proclaims the bill.