"You were playing something quite different, when I came to the door," he said, sitting down beside her.
"I thought you might prefer something gay," she answered without looking at him and still playing on.
San Miniato did not answer the remark, for he distrusted her and fancied she might have a retort ready. Her tongue was often sharper than he liked, though he was not sensitive on the whole.
"Will you sing something to me?" he asked, as she struck the last chords of the waltz.
"Oh yes," she replied with an alacrity that surprised him, "I feel rather inclined to sing. Mamma," she cried, as the Marchesa entered the room, "I am going to sing to my betrothed. Is it not touching?"
"It is very good of you," said San Miniato.
The Marchesa smiled and sank into a chair. Beatrice struck a few chords and then, looking at the Count with half closed eyes, began to sing the pathetic little song of Chiquita.
"On dit que l'on te marie
Tu sais que j'en vais mourir—"
Her voice was very sweet and true and there was real pathos in the words as she sang them. But as she went on, San Miniato noticed first that she repeated the second line, and then that she sang all the remaining melody to it, singing it over and over again with an amazing variety of expression, angrily, laughingly, ironically and sadly.
"—Tu sais que j'en vais mourir!"