CHRISTIAN (persuasively):
No, no! You, who are ballad-maker to Court and City alike, can tell me
better than any who the lady is for whom I die of love. Stay yet awhile.
THE FIRST VIOLIN (striking his bow on the desk):
Gentlemen violinists!
(He raises his bow.)
THE BUFFET-GIRL:
Macaroons, lemon-drink. . .
(The violins begin to play.)
CHRISTIAN:
Ah! I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious!
I, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her—how address her?
This language that they speak to-day—ay, and write—confounds me;
I am but an honest soldier, and timid withal. She has ever her place,
there, on the right—the empty box, see you!
LIGNIÈRE (making as if to go):
I must go.
CHRISTIAN (detaining him):
Nay, stay.
LIGNIÈRE:
I cannot. D’Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst.
THE BUFFET-GIRL (passing before him with a tray):
Orange drink?