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'

just a fantasy

The three-legged accordionist fell off his stool outside the Paris brothel where he had been entertaining passersby for three hundred years. He was drunk. Lush from life and under the influence, lid-heavy humming ditties to the pimps of Pigalle and the ladies of love-for-a-sous.

He had promised her he'd wait for ever, and  never lost hope as she came and she went with the same refrain: just one more, and then we can leave this place and sever our street servitude. But there was always another lover to please for pennies, as lost in her despair she was dragged by  dejection found in fires too old. Too solid the chains, too weak her desire, too deep the furrows too furious the fire. They'd fallen before - too long ago and were bystanders in their own story, set in cement of shared sorrow.

Move along, Freak snarled the gendarme with kicking malevolence, taunting as he'd done for hundreds of years, envying his boundless devotion to a love so lost it seemed laughable: 
'three-legged and legless' he sung and the crowd joined in chorus mocking and proud. Proud of what? Proud of thin straight white lines they eschewed? Proud of the queue for La Porte Etroite which stays shut in their faces as they strut the obedience with expressionless faces. There but for the grace of the graces. How could they share what he felt? The devotion of Penelope, weaving by day and unpicking by night, the thread that tied him to one pair of eyes and one sorry soul.

Alons-y Allonso the crowd chanted with glee like the Doctor, D. Tennant the Tennent's super-monster from the park-bench of bed-ridden Britain, the Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I drink to you all.
Move on
Allons-y
Nothing to see - c'est fini
It's just a childlike fantasy