A year before he might have laughed, or trembled; but in his
restless mood he only stood and listened while the words sank into his
consciousness:
"Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone."
The lightning split the sky, but the song went on without a quaver.
The girl was evidently in the field and the voice seemed to come vaguely
from a haystack about twenty feet in front of him.
Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that soared and
hung and fell and blended with the rain:
"Tout suffocant
Et bleme quand
Sonne l'heure
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure. . . ."
"Who the devil is there in Ramilly County," muttered Amory aloud, "who
would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?"
"Somebody's there!" cried the voice unalarmed. "Who are you?--Manfred,
St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?"
"I'm Don Juan!" Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the
noise of the rain and the wind.
A delighted shriek came from the haystack.
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