CHAPTER II 



THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER 



We are in the middle of July. The astronomical dog- 

 days are just beginning; but in reality the torrid season 

 has anticipated the calendar and for some weeks past the 

 heat has been overpowering. 



This evening in the village they are celebrating the 

 National Festival. 1 While the little boys and girls are 

 hopping round a bonfire whose gleams are reflected 

 upon the church-steeple, while the drum is pounded to 

 mark the ascent of each rocket, I am sitting alone in a 

 dark corner, in the comparative coolness that prevails at 

 nine o'clock, harking to the concert of the festival of the 

 fields, the festival of the harvest, grander by far than that 

 which, at this moment, is being celebrated in the village 

 square with gunpowder, lighted torches, Chinese lanterns 

 and, above all, strong drink. It has the simplicity of 

 beauty and the repose of strength. 



It is late; and the Cicadae are silent. Glutted with 

 light and heat, they have indulged in symphonies all the 

 livelong day. The advent of the night means rest for 

 them, but a rest frequently disturbed. In the dense 

 branches of the plane-trees a sudden sound rings out like 



iThe 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille.— 

 Translator's Note. 



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