No, no, Lucienne; in vain your wits would tire
To guess just what it is that I desire.
I want—come closer; let me speak it low—
I want—
Lucienne (in alarm).
Why, Henri, what disturbs you so?
Henri.
The wish to look on that famed Saint who brings
At twelve each Christmas-eve such pretty things;
To watch old Santa Claus, as plain as day,
Steal to this hall in some mysterious way;
To mark his long white beard, his elfish mien,
And see what others have so rarely seen.
Lucienne (agitated).
Oh, Henri, brother, I am filled with dread!
How came so queer a fancy in your head?
Henri.
Call it a whim, freak, folly, if you choose;
Only keep watch with me. You'll not refuse?
Lucienne.