And Cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. Some soft and vibrating chords served as accompaniment. This was Cecily's song:
"Flowers—still flowers, everywhere.
My lover is coming—my hope of happiness unnerves me.
Let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer shade.
My lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest flowers.
The brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses will keep them closed.
Come—come—come—come, love! Come—come—come!"
These words, uttered with animation, as if the creole was addressing an unseen lover, were rendered by her the theme of a delicious melody; her charming fingers produced from the guitar, an instrument of no great power, vibrations full of harmony. The impassioned look of Cecily, her half closed, humid eyes fastened on Jacques Ferrand, were full of the expression of expectation. Words of love, delicious music, together conspired at the moment to bereave Jacques Ferrand of his reason; and, half frenzied, he exclaimed:
"Mercy, Cecily, mercy! You will drive me distracted! Oh, be silent, or I die! Oh, that I were mad!"
"Listen to the second couplet, master," said the creole, again touching the chords; and she thus continued her impassioned recitative:
"If my lover were here, and his hand touched my bare shoulder, I should tremble and die.
If he were here, and his curly hair touched my cheek, my pale cheek would become purple—my pale cheek would be on fire.
Soul of my Soul, if thou wert here, my parched lips would not utter a word.
Life of my Life, if thou wert here, I should expiring ask thy pardon.
'Tis sweet to die for and with those we love.
Angel, come—come to my heart—come—come—come!"
If the creole had rendered the first strophe with languid pleasure, she put in her last words all the enthusiasm of antique love; and as if the music had been powerless to express her intense passion, she threw her guitar from her, and, half rising and extending her arms towards the door, where Jacques Ferrand stood, she repeated, in a faltering, dying tone, "Oh, come—come—come!" It would be impossible to depict the electric look with which she accompanied these words. Jacques Ferrand uttered a terrible cry.
"Oh, death! Death to him whom you could thus love!" he cried, shaking the door in a burst of jealousy and furious rage.
Agile as a panther, Cecily was at the door with one bound; and, as if she with difficulty repressed her feigned transports, she said to Jacques Ferrand, in a low, concentrated, palpitating voice:
"Well, then, I will confess I am excited by my song. I did not mean to approach the door again, yet here I am, in spite of myself; for I hear still the words you said just now, 'If you bade me strike, I would strike.' You love me, then?"