Yvette
What is this pain that’s tearing at my heart?
What matters it to me whom he doth love?
And what concern of mine that she is fair?
I would she were not so!—Oh, misery!
She is in Nantes, she is La Belle Marquise!
I would that she were dead!
[The chapel bell rings.
O Seigneur Dieu!
Her death! I do not wish her death! Not I!