great dry fiddle; the slightest noises grow great in it, become
disfigured and positively disquieting.

Beneath the verandah are hung two little Æolian harps, which at the
least ruffle of the breeze running through their blades of grass, emit
a gentle tinkling sound, like the harmonious murmur of a brook;
outside, to the very furthest limits of the distance, the cicalas
continue their great and everlasting concert; over our heads, on the
black roof, is heard passing like a witch's sabbath, the raging battle
to the death of cats, rats and owls.

Presently, when in the early dawn, a fresher breeze, mounting upwards
from the sea and the deep harbor, reaches us, Chrysanthème will slyly
get up and shut the panels I have opened.

Before that, however, she will have risen at least three times to
smoke: having yawned like a cat, stretched herself, twisted in every
direction her little amber arms, and her graceful little hands, she
sits up resolutely, with all the waking groans and half words of a
child, pretty and fascinating enough: then she emerges from the gauze
tent, fills her little pipe, and breathes a few puffs of the bitter
and unpleasant mixture.

Then comes _pan, pan, pan, pan,_ against the box to shake out the
ashes. In the resounding sonority of the night it makes quite a
terrible noise, which wakes Madame Prune. This is fatal. Madame Prune
is at once seized also with a longing to smoke which may not be
denied; then, to the noise from above, comes an answering _pan, pan,
pan, pan,_ from below, exactly like it, exasperating and inevitable as
an echo.