"I have got my Burgundian song," said I, with an air of triumph.
"Bravo! Where did you unearth it?"
"I didn't. I made it. And as it needs you, here it is." Scheffer stood in unspeakable astonishment. I told him my story. Then I added: "My crime is double,—the air came to me with the words." My neighbour's eyes opened wide. He thought me very mad indeed. "And," I added, "musician that I am, I bring you my air; I can hear it buzzing in my head; but my throat will not translate it properly."
"What shall we do?" said he.
"I will hum it over to you, and we will piece it together on the piano."
"Bon. J'y suis. And together it was done—well done. We kept silence. The next day the compositors were busy; and soon everyone was reading the Burgundian Folk-Song, 'Eho.' I had succeeded." Now you understand why one remembers a déjeuner with François Fertiault.[191]
Here we are at the shining Saône, crossed by a suspension bridge that rocks under the weight of every carriage we meet; and here, at the end of the long avenue of poplars, beside the junction of the two rivers, is Verdun sur-le-Doubs.
Now that we are here I do not know that I have much to say about the town itself, except that it is a peaceful little place, lying snugly beside its waters that flow over golden sands.[192] In the 14th century, however, Verdun was a bonne ville fermée, one of the most ancient baronies of Burgundy, with fortress, fairs, markets, fiefs, vassals, and all the other appointments of a mediæval town; but the tides of war, sweeping, time after time, over this part of the country, have left not even a ruin to remind us of its past.