You regret your own fond dove."
"It's a barcarolle—is it not, monsieur?"
"No, my dear girl; that's called a villanelle, the favorite song of our ancient troubadours, and of shepherds who bemoaned their shepherdesses."
"What a pity that I don't know Italian!"
"What do you require Italian for,—in order to say,
Is she not the one I love?"
"Be quiet, be quiet; they're singing in French now," said Blanche, pressing close to the window-panes, and signing with her hand to Chaudoreille not to stir.
"What's that you're saying?" cried the sitar master, rising in surprise,—"for me to be quiet! Does that noise out there disturb you too much? To the devil with the street singers who prevent you from hearing me! I hardly know how to restrain myself from going to drive them away with a few blows from my good blade Rolande!"
"If I only dared open my window for a few moments," sighed Blanche. "But no, I must not, for M. Touquet has firmly forbidden me to do so. What a pretty, pretty air! Ah, I shall easily remember that,
| I love to eternity |
| My darling is all to me; |