Blanche took up her work again; Chaudoreille seated himself near her, and after a quarter of an hour's tuning of the sitar, coughed, expectorated, blew his nose, turned around on his chair, arranged his cape, pursed his mouth, passed his tongue over his lips, and at last commenced in a shrill voice, which pierced the ears, an ancient ditty which Blanche had heard a hundred times before.
"I know that, my dear master," said she, interrupting Chaudoreille in the middle of a point d'orgue, which he seemed willing to prolong indefinitely; "that's one of the three you have already taught me."
"Do you think so?"
"Wait; I'll sing it for you."
Blanche took the instrument, and, gracefully accompanying herself, sang, in a melodious voice which gave a charm to the old ballad.
"That's very well, indeed," said Chaudoreille; "you sing the passages precisely in my manner; I seem to hear myself."
"Teach me another, then," said the young girl, returning the instrument to him; and Chaudoreille intoned a virelay on the great feats of Pepin the Short.
"I know that, too," said Blanche, stopping him.
"In that case I will sing you a charming villanelle."
"Mercy! that will be the third of those you have taught me. Don't you know any others?"