Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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Suddenly a strange sound fell on his ears. It was a song, in a low, husky voice, a girl’s voice, and whoever was singing was very close to him. 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 cœur

D’une langueur

Monotòne.”

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 blême 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?”