A hopeless passion...or is it?

This is NOT the 3-legged accordionist - it is his brother

Meanwhile back in Pigalle, the three-legged accordionist had picked himself up and reclaimed his dignity to resume his centuries-old watch on his stool outside the brothel where his love was employed, enchained in servitude by their hunger for survival. She turned tricks for pittance and he maintained vigil for a pious passion. 

The crowds snaked past, some throwing pennies, some hurling abuse, but all oblivious to the true love being demonstrated on the street before their eyes, while inside the paid love which some sought to fend off for a moment, the emptiness of loneliness, as they have for millennia, carried on: the meter ticking, the pennies dropping, tick tock kerchink plop. Love for a sous, ecstasy a Euro or two, pennies for pain that lives inside you.

'Alons-y Alonzo, mon ami' called David Tennant from his distant tenement, 'why not give up and flee this place, and start again with a new refrain?' But the accordionist knew no other way and could only stay, like a true disciple, clinging to a faith, forlorn and fearful.

'I'll toss you for her' sneered the jealous gendarme: 'a toss for a toss-off: fair exchange'. But the accordionist was implacable. Steady and steadfast, he sat on his stool and played a mournful ballad, like the martyrs of old: his expression fixed.

'I have lived for her love, and for her love I will die. This is no passing coquetry'