"The flower gardens, Michel?" he asked over his shoulder. "They are before us?"
"Ahead and to the left, monsieur," said the old man, and he took up once more his slow and difficult progress. But again, before he had gone many steps, he was halted. There began to reach his ears a rich but slender strain of sound, a golden thread of melody. At first he thought that it was a cello or the lower notes of a violin, but presently he became aware that it was a woman singing in a half-voice without thought of what she sang—as women croon to a child, or over their work, or when they are idle and their thoughts are far wandering.
The mistake was not as absurd as it may seem, for it is a fact that the voice which is called a contralto, if it is a good and clear and fairly resonant voice, sounds at a distance very much indeed like a cello or the lower register of a violin. And that is especially true when the voice is hushed to a half-articulate murmur. Indeed, this is but one of the many strange peculiarities of that most beautiful of all human organs. The contralto can rarely express the lighter things, and it is quite impossible for it to express merriment or gaiety, but it can thrill the heart as can no other sound emitted by a human throat, and it can shake the soul to its very innermost hidden deeps. It is the soft yellow gold of singing—the wine of sound: it is mystery: it is shadowy unknown beautiful places: it is enchantment.
Ste. Marie stood still and listened. The sound of low singing came from the right. Without realising that he had moved he began to make his way in that direction, and the old Michel, carbine upon arm, followed behind him. He had no doubt of the singer. He knew well who it was, for the girl's speaking voice had thrilled him long before this. He came to the eastern margin of the grove of chestnuts, and found that he was beside the open rond point where the pool lay within its stone circumference, unclean and choked with lily pads, and the fountain, a naked lady holding aloft a shell, stood above. The rond point was not in reality round, it was an oval with its greater axis at right angles to the long straight avenue of larches. At the two ends of the oval there were stone benches with backs, and behind these tall shrubs grew close and overhung so that even at noonday the spots were shaded.
CHAPTER XX
THE STONE BENCH AT THE ROND POINT
Mlle. Coira O'Hara sat alone upon the stone bench at the hither end of the rond point. With a leisurely hand she put fine stitches into a mysterious garment of white, with lace on it, and, over her not too arduous toil, she sang à demi voix, a little German song all about the tender passions.
"Mlle. Coira O'Hara sat alone upon the stone bench."
Ste. Marie halted his dragging steps a little way off, but the girl heard him and turned to look. After that she rose hurriedly and stood as if poised for flight, but Ste. Marie took his hat in his hands and came forward.