Hansfelt had also been listening attentively to the music.
“Yes,” said he smiling, “they exist in the hearts of all who love—especially in the hearts of all who love without hope. Here I will express in common language, but not in rhyme, the meaning of what Clement has just played.”
He took a pencil and hastily wrote four lines nearly synonymous with those of a French poet:
“Du mal qu'une amour ignorée
Nous fait souffrir
Je porte l'âme déchirée
Jusqu'à mourir!”[1]
The pang of unrequited love
I feel;
'Tis death the bleeding heart I bear