Rosalie shuddered. Behind the peasant who played the flute there was the prince besides. Given a strong imagination—and that might become dangerous.
“None of that story is true,” and this time she did not laugh any more. “In the district of Aps there are ten families bearing that so-called princely name. Anybody who told you otherwise told a falsehood through vanity or through—”
“But it was Numa—it was your husband. The other night at the Ministry he gave us all sorts of details.”
“O! You know how it is with him—you have got to consider the focus, as he says himself.”
Hortense was not listening. She had gone back into the drawing-room, and, seated at the piano, she began in a loud voice:
“Mount’ as passa ta matinado,
Mourbieù, Marioun....”
It was an old popular ballad of Provence, sung to an air as grave as a church recitative, that Numa had taught his sister-in-law; one that he enjoyed hearing her sing with her Parisian accent, which, sliding over the Southern articulations, made one think of Italian spoken by an Englishwoman.
“Où as-tu passé ta matinée, morbleu, Marion?
A la fontaine chercher de l’eau, mon Dieu, mon ami.