_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.
My poor Yves was out of temper on this occasion, because I had induced
him to come out in a straw hat with a turned-up brim, which did not
please him.
"It suits you remarkably well, Yves, I assure you."
"Oh, indeed! You say so, you. For my part, I think it looks like a
magpie's nest!"
As a fortunate diversion from the singer and the hat, here comes a
cortège, advancing towards us from the end of the street, something
remarkably like a funeral. Bonzes march in front dressed in robes of
black gauze, having much the appearance of Catholic priests; the
principal personage of the procession, the corpse, comes last, laid in
a sort of little closed palanquin which is daintily pretty. This is
followed by a band of mousmés, hiding their laughing faces beneath a
kind of veil, and carrying in vases of the sacred shape the artificial
lotus with silver petals indispensable at a funeral; then come fine
ladies, on foot, smirking and stifling a wish to laugh, beneath
parasols on which are painted in the gayest colors, butterflies and
storks.
Now they are quite close to us, we must stand back to give them room.
Chrysanthème all at once assumes a suitable air of gravity, and Yves
bares his head, taking off the magpie's nest.
Yes, it is true, it is death that is passing by!