Joyzelle.
(Swooning.) Lancéor, I am mad, or else we are going to die....
Lancéor.
(Supporting her.) Joyzelle, you are turning pale and your dear arms are pressing me as though you feared that a hidden enemy....
Joyzelle.
Have you not seen...?
Lancéor.
What?
Joyzelle.
We are caught in a trap and those flowers are betraying us.... The birds were silent, the trees were dead, there was nothing here but weeds, which no one dug up.... I recognize them all and remember their names, which still remind me of their former wretchedness.... Here is the buttercup, laden with golden disks; the poor pale pimpernel is changed into a bush of lilies; the tall scabious are dropping their petals over our heads; and those purple bells which shoot up over the wall to tell the world that they have seen us, are the foxglove, which was pining in the shade.... It is as though the sky had shed its flowers.... Do not look at them; they are here to ruin us.... Ah, I am wrong to seek and I should have understood!... He muttered confused threats.... Yes, yes, I knew he had spells at his command.... They told me so one day, but I did not believe them.... Now it is his time; it is well, it is too late; but perhaps we shall see that love also knows....