"Poor fellow! he tries to shake it off," thought the governor. "I ought not to let him drink alone," and the baron had his mug refilled.
"Baron, a song!" cried Létorière, very gayly. "Do you know The Retreat? They say that the air and the words were composed by one of your old huntsmen."
"You sing it, Marquis—I will tell you if I know it."
And Létorière, having again emptied his mug, and preluded by a deep hem—hem—or two, struck up the following song with the voice of a Stentor:
"'Afar the trumpet peals!
The stag lies on his haunches!
Let the merry hallo sound,
'Tis a stag of ten branch—'"
"Come! join the chorus, baron. . . . Heavens! 'tis quite apropos to-day."
"With all my heart, Marquis! I don't know the air, but, by Jupiter, it is worthy of Mozart!" and the baron repeated the refrain with a voice so powerful, that it shook the windows.
"Listen to the minor strain, baron. . . . It is as melancholy as the last sounds of a distant trumpet in a clear night."
And the Marquis continued in a softer voice, and in a slower measure:
"'Now the star of evening
Peers above the hill;
The day hides in the forest,
All is still.
'Tis the hour of retreat,
Let the dogs be coupled quick;
Huntsmen mount and trumpets sound;
Forward your brave horses prick!
See the brown night
And the moonlight;
We will go back
Home without seeing
The huntsman in black.'"