The two engines of detonation were placed at the foot of the plane-trees before my door, no precautions being taken to mask them.

The Cigales singing in the branches above could not see what was happening below.
There were six of us, spectators and auditors.

We waited for a moment of relative quiet.

The number of singers was counted by each of us, as well as the volume and rhythm of the song.

We stood ready, our ears attentive to the aerial orchestra.