“In Heaven’s name, speak, mademoiselle! I have not the slightest intention of offending you, quite the contrary. You both look so charming to me, that I here and now vow to offer my heart and my claw to whichever of you will accept it, the moment I know if I am a magpie or something else; for, when I look at you,” I added, speaking in a lower tone to the young lady, “I feel a something of the turtle-dove about me, which torments me strangely.”
“Why, to be sure,” said the turtle, blushing still more, “I do not know if it is the reflection of the sun striking on you through these poppies, but your plumage does seem to me to have a slight tint....”
She did not venture to say more.
“O perplexity!” I exclaimed, “how am I to know what to believe? How give my heart to one of you, when it is so cruelly torn asunder? O Socrates! how admirable, but how hard to follow, the principle thou hast given us, when thou saidst, ‛Know thyself!’”
Since the day when my unfortunate song had so enraged my father, I had never made use of my voice. At this juncture it came into my mind to employ it as a means of discerning the truth. “By Jove,” thought I, “since my father put me to the door after the first couplet, the least the second can do is to produce some effect on these ladies!” Having, then, commenced by bowing politely, as if to request their indulgence because of the rain which I had come through, I began first of all to whistle, then to warble, then to do roulades, then at last to sing at the pitch of my voice, like a Spanish muleteer in full blast.
The longer I sang, the farther and farther the little magpie made off from me with an air of surprise, which soon became stupefaction, then turned into a feeling of terror mingled with profound weariness. She described circles round about me, like a cat about a piece of scalding hot bacon which has just burned her, but which she wishes to taste again. Seeing the effect of my experiment, and wishing to carry it out to the end, the more impatience the poor Marchioness showed, the more I sang myself hoarse. She resisted my melodious efforts for five-and-twenty minutes; at last, unable to stand them any longer, she flew away noisily and returned to her palace of verdure. As for the turtle, she had been sound asleep almost from the first.
“Admirable effect of harmony!” I reflected. “O Marais! O maternal bowl! More than ever my thoughts return to you!”
At the moment when I was spreading my wings to depart, the turtle reopened her eyes.
“Adieu,” she said, “stranger, so polite and so tiresome! My name is Guruli; remember me!”
“Beauteous Guruli,” I answered, “you are good, gentle and charming; I would live and die for you. But you are rose-colour; such happiness is not meant for me!”