XXIII.

_August 2nd_.


Down below in the town, a street singer had established herself in a
little thoroughfare; people had collected around her to listen to her
singing, and we three--that is, Yves, Chrysanthème and I--who chanced
to be passing, stopped like others.

Quite young, rather fat, fairly pretty, she strummed her guitar and
sang, rolling her eyes fiercely, like a virtuoso executing feats of
difficulty. She lowered her head, stuck her chin into her neck, in
order to draw deeper notes from the furthermost recesses of her body;
and succeeded in bringing forth a great hoarse voice,--a voice that
might have belonged to an aged frog, a ventriloquist's voice, coming
from whence it would be impossible to say (this is the best stage
manner, the final word of art, for the interpretation of tragic
pieces).

Yves cast an indignant glance upon her:

"Good gracious," said he, "it's the voice of a--" (words failed him,
in his astonishment) "it's the voice of a--a monster!"

And he looked at me, almost frightened by this little being, and
anxious to know what I thought of it.