Guimard. Ah! Devil!
Biskra. Dost thou see thy son?
Guimard. No, not any more.
Biskra.[Imitates the ringing of bells with her guitar.] What seest thou, now?
Guimard. I hear bells being rung, and I smell the odor of a dead body, it smells like rancid butter—ugh!
Biskra. Dost thou not hear the choir boys sing for the memory of a dead child?
Guimard. Just wait, I cannot hear it. [Gloomily.] But dost thou wish it, be it so; now I hear it.
Biskra. Dost thou see the wreaths on the coffin, which they carry in their midst?
Guimard. Yes.
Biskra. There is a violet ribbon, and this is printed in silver: “Farewell, my beloved Georges, thy father.”