ALLADINE.
No.
ABLAMORE.
What is it in the park?—Were you looking at the avenue of fountains that unfolds before your windows?—They are wonderful and weariless. They were raised there one by one, at the death of each of my daughters…. At night I hear them singing in the garden…. They bring to mind the lives they represent, and I can tell their voices apart….
ALLADINE.
I know.
ABLAMORE.
You must pardon me; I sometimes repeat the same things and my memory is less trust-worthy…. It is not age; I am not an old man yet, thank God! but kings have a thousand cares. Palomides has been telling me his adventures….
ALLADINE.
Ah!