“I don’t feel disposed.”
“As you like,” she said, turning to the instrument and striking the keys as if she would break them.
I took up an old newspaper and pretended to be reading it.
In the end she played a prelude, and then began the air of Bettly in the châlet—
Liberté chérie,
Seul bien de la vie,
Règne toujours là!
Tra la, la, la, tra la, la, la!
Tant pis pour qui s’en fâchera!
I threw aside the paper, and, approaching the piano, I whispered—