When she had finished she licked the tips of her fingers clean of cheese, and produced a small tobacco-pouch from another military pocket, and made herself a cigarette, and lit it and smoked it, inhaling the smoke in large whiffs, filling her lungs with it, and sending it back through her nostrils, with a look of great beatitude.
Svengali played Schubert's "Rosemonde," and flashed a pair of languishing black eyes at her with intent to kill.
But she didn't even look his way. She looked at Little Billee, at big Taffy, at the Laird, at the casts and studies, at the sky, the chimney-pots over the way, the towers of Notre Dame, just visible from where she sat.
Only when he finished she exclaimed: "Maïe, aïe! c'est rudement bien tapé, c'te musique-là! Seulement, c'est pas gai, vous savez! Comment q'ça s'appelle?"
"It is called the 'Rosemonde' of Schubert, matemoiselle," replied Svengali. (I will translate.)
"And what's that—Rosemonde?" said she.
"Rosemonde was a princess of Cyprus, matemoiselle, and Cyprus is an island."
"Ah, and Schubert, then—where's that?"