He cuts a living face from living oak.
I must stand back and silently admire,
Stand mute with fear. His art is wife and child
For him. How sad I am that the lost hours
Spent at the inn cannot be mine! Oh, God!
(She kneels before the statues.)
Monsieur Saint Nicholas, Madame Saint Rose,
You whom my Pierre has graven, pardon me
If I dare speak to you—I suffer so!
You’ve always been so good, so kind to me!