He made a sign to the officer to follow his example and to come with him.  They went slowly along a footpath between two hedges of blossoming hawthorn which filled the damp evening air with its delicate fragrance.  The sun shone full into the pathway; the light and warmth were very perceptible after the shade thrown by the long wall of poplar trees; the still powerful rays poured a flood of red light over a cottage at the end of the stony track.  The ridge of the cottage roof was usually a bright green with its overgrowth of mosses and house-leeks, and the thatch was brown as a chestnut shell, but just now it seemed to be powdered with a golden dust.  The cottage itself was scarcely visible through the haze of light; the ruinous wall, the doorway and everything about it was radiant with a fleeting glory and a beauty due to chance, such as is sometimes seen for an instant in a human face, beneath the influence of a strong emotion that brings warmth and color into it.  In a life under the open sky and among the fields, the transient and tender grace of such moments as these draws from us the wish of the apostle who said to Jesus Christ upon the mountain, “Let us build a tabernacle and dwell here.”

The wide landscape seemed at that moment to have found a voice whose purity, and sweetness equaled its own sweetness and purity, a voice as mournful as the dying light in the west—­for a vague reminder of Death is divinely set in the heavens, and the sun above gives the same warning that is given here on earth by the flowers and the bright insects of the day.  There is a tinge of sadness about the radiance of sunset, and the melody was sad.  It was a song widely known in the days of yore, a ballad of love and sorrow that once had served to stir a national hatred of France for England.  Beaumarchais, in a later day, had given it back its true poetry by adapting it for the French theatre and putting it into the mouth of a page, who pours out his heart to his stepmother.  Just now it was simply the air that rose and fell.  There were no words; the plaintive voice of the singer touched and thrilled the soul.

“It is the swan’s song,” said Benassis.  “That voice does not sound twice in a century for human ears.  Let us hurry; we must put a stop to the singing!  The child is killing himself; it would be cruel to listen to him any longer.  Be quiet, Jacques!  Come, come, be quiet!” cried the doctor.

The music ceased.  Genestas stood motionless and overcome with astonishment.  A cloud had drifted across the sun, the landscape and the voice were both mute.  Shadow, chillness, and silence had taken the place of the soft glory of the light, the warm breath of the breeze, and the child’s singing.

“What makes you disobey me?” asked Benassis.  “I shall not bring you any more rice pudding nor snail broth!  No more fresh dates and white bread for you!  So you want to die and break your poor mother’s heart, do you?”