Oh! How one's heart went with her! Anne! Sister Anne! Do you see anything?
"Elle voit de loin son page—
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!
Elle voit de loin son page,
Tout de noir habillé!"
One is almost sick with the sense of impending calamity—it is all but unbearable!
"Mon page—mon beau page!—
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!
Mon page—mon beau page!
Quelles nouvelles apportez?"
And here Little Billee begins to weep again, and so does everybody else! The mironton, mirontaine is an agonized wail of suspense—poor bereaved duchess!—poor Sarah Jennings! Did it all announce itself to you just like that?
All this while the accompaniment had been quite simple—just a few obvious ordinary chords.
But now, quite suddenly, without a single modulation or note of warning, down goes the tune a full major third, from E to C—into the graver depths of Trilby's great contralto—so solemn and ominous that there is no more weeping, but the flesh creeps; the accompaniment slows and elaborates itself; the march becomes a funeral march, with muted strings, and quite slowly:
"Aux nouvelles que j'apporte—
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!
Aux nouvelles que j'apporte,
Vos beaux yeux vont pleurer!"
Richer and richer grows the accompaniment. The mironton, mirontaine becomes a dirge—
"Quittez vos habits roses—
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!
Quittez vos habits roses,
Et vos satins brochés!"