loudest, the strident noise trembling feverishly in the hot air. All
was calm, full of light and full of heat.

Nevertheless, to my taste, it is not yet enough so! What then can have
changed upon the earth? The burning noon-days of summer, such as I can
recall in days gone by, were more brilliant, more full of sunshine;
Nature seemed to me in those days more powerful, more terrible. One
would say this was only a pale copy of all that I knew in early
years,--a copy in which something is wanting. Sadly do I ask
myself,--Is the splendor of the summer only this? _was it_ only this?
or is it the fault of my eyes, and as time goes on shall I behold
everything around me paling still more?

Behind me a faint and melancholy strain of music,--melancholy enough
to make one shiver,--and shrill, shrill as the song of the
grasshoppers, began to make itself heard, very softly at first, then
growing louder and rising in the silence of the noonday like the
diminutive wail of some poor Japanese soul in pain and anguish; it was
Chrysanthème and her guitar awaking together.

It pleased me that the idea should have occurred to her to greet me
with music, instead of eagerly hastening to wish me "Good morning."
(At no time have I ever given myself the trouble to pretend the
slightest affection for her, and a certain coldness even has grown up
between us, especially when we are alone.) But to-day I turn to her
with a smile, and wave my hand for her to continue. "Go on, it amuses
me to listen to your quaint little impromptu." It is singular that the
music of this essentially merry people should be so plaintive. But
undoubtedly that which Chrysanthème is playing at this moment is worth
listening to. Whence can it have come to her? What unutterable dreams,