that's the refrain."
"No, divine Blanche, you are mistaken; these are the words,—
| I have lost my turtle-dove, |
| And her flight I must pursue,— |
| Is she not the one I love?" |
The singers departed. Blanche then left the casement, and, on turning, saw Chaudoreille with his neck elongated, the better to execute a note. She could not restrain a desire to laugh, which was evoked by the face of the chevalier; and the latter remained with his mouth open, not knowing how to take the young girl's laughter, when Marguerite entered the room.
"It's burned at last," said the old woman as she came in.
"What is burned," cried Chaudoreille,—"the roast?"
"Ah, yes, indeed; it's a book of witchcraft, of magic. It was very hard to get it to burn, those books are so accustomed to fire."
"What is that you say, Marguerite? You have books of magic,—you who are afraid of everything? Do you wish to enter into communication with the spirits of the other world?"
"Ah, God keep me from it, Monsieur Chaudoreille. But I'll tell you how that book came into my hands, where it didn't stay long, for it seemed to me that that cursed conjuring-book burned my fingers. My master wished me to change my room—because—but I oughtn't to tell you that."
"Try to remember what you wished to tell me."