Baron (speaking in a very gruff, hollow voice, totally unlike his usual tones).
Gaspard? Of him what question would you ask?
To deal with sweethearts never was my task.
If love's coquettish moods your phrase would paint,
'Twere best you should consult another saint.
[Eloise shows marked surprise as these words are spoken. The voice which the Baron uses evidently arouses her astonishment. But by the time he has ended she is once more looking at audience with same sly expression as before. Meanwhile Henri and Lucienne, as though terrified by the stern voice of him whom they suppose to be Santa Claus, close doors at R. and L., disappearing wholly from stage.]
Eloise [aside].
He's changed his voice; he's warier than I guessed.
Well, now, till all's revealed I'll never rest.
[Aloud.]
Nay, mighty Saint, I tell it to my grief,
This lad, Gaspard, torments me past belief.
In hall or corridor I scarce can pause
But there he waits to accost me, Santa Claus.
His flattery turns me ill; with sigh and groan
He vows that Nature wrought my heart from stone;
Now rude and fierce, now penitent and meek,
He swears to hang himself three times a week;
But most, indeed, my wearied soul regrets
The doleful chant of stupid canzonets
Which night by night below my window's ledge,
Perched like a monkey on a slant roof's edge,
He drones when all the vast château is mute,
Hugging against his breast a crack-stringed lute.
Gaspard [aside, and in tones of great melancholy].
Oh, Eloise, relentless and untrue!
Complained of as a nuisance! and by you!
[Gaspard covers face with hands, as though overwhelmed by grief.]