She turned to Vincent: there was a mute question in her eyes.
"Will you sing the Claire Fontaine, Maisrie?" said he.
She seemed a little surprised: it was a strange song to ask for on a night of farewell; but she did as she was bidden. She went and got the book and placed it open before her on the table: then she drew her bow across the strings.
But hardly had she began to sing the little ballad than it became evident that there was something added to the pure, clear tones of her voice—some quality of an indefinable nature—some alien influence that might at any moment prove too strong for her self-control.
Sur la plus haute tranche—
this was the point at which she began—
Le rossignol chantait;
Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qui as le coeur gai—
And so far all was well; but at the refrain
Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai
her voice shook a little, and her lips were tremulous. Vincent cursed his folly a hundred times over: why had he asked her to sing the Claire Fontaine? But still she held bravely on: