“Certainly.”
“Then I will obey you to the best of my ability.”
That evening, when the nurse did not succeed in quieting Dilette, who was for some reason out of sorts, Raymonde insisted on putting the baby to sleep herself, a privilege which she had always enjoyed at the chateau. As a lullaby she sang in a low voice, to the tune of “Malbrough,” a romance of Chérubin. When she came to the stanza:
There, by a fountain green,
O, my heart, my heart, it grieves!
There had my lover been,
And my tears were full, I ween.
And my grief believes.
whether it was because of the contagious sadness of the verses, the memory of our own Green Fountain, or a presentiment of the dangers that threw their shadows across our love, I do not know, but she stopped. I was in the next room and the curtains between us were drawn back. I heard what sounded like a stifled sigh. Awakened by the silence, Dilette began to cry again, and my wife slowly continued her song.
* * *