"Not only so, but for him alone will it sing. I let it fly one day when its foot was well; but the next morning I found it outside the window pecking at its cage-wires, and it said, 'Take me back again, if you please.'"
"That is like the Chevalier too. But you are like him; I suppose it is being so much with him."
"And yet I never saw him till the first day I saw you, and you had seen him long before. I think it must be dead, it is so still."
Hereupon she uncovered the lark's head; it peeped up, and slowly, with sly scrutiny, hopped back to the peach and began to feed, driving in its little bill. I wanted to know something now, and my curiosity in those days had not so much as received a wholesome check, much less a quietus; and therefore presumptuously demanded,—
"Who was the somebody, Fräulein Cerinthia, that might stop to listen to a bird's cry besides the Chevalier. You stopped."
"And that is why you wished to know. I had better have said it in the right place. Did anybody ever tell you you are audacious? It was Florimond Anastase."
"My master!" and I clapped my hands.
"Mine, sir, if you please."
"But he teaches me the violin."
"And he does not teach me the violin, but is yet my master."