“You won’t interfere with me at all, Amédée—not claim anything?”
“Oh, don’t be afraid. Dès ce moment je vais me reflanquer au sapin! I shall be as dead as dead can be for you. Suis pas méchant va!”
“Thank you,” said Yvonne. “You were always kind-hearted, Amédée—oh, it was a horrible mistake—it can’t be altered. You see that I am helpless.”
“Why, my child,” said he, seating himself again, “I keep on telling you it is a farce—like all the rest of life. I only laugh. And now let us talk a little before I pop into the coffin again. What is the name of the thrice happy being?”
“Oh, don’t ask me, I beg you,” said Yvonne shivering. “It is all so painful. Tell me about yourself—your voice—Is it still in good condition?”
“Never better. I am singing here this afternoon.”
“In the Kursaal?”
“Why, yes. That’s why I am here. Oh, ca marche—pas encore paralysée, celle-là. Come and hear me. Et ton petit organe à toi?”
“I am out of practice. I have given up the profession.”
“Ah, it’s a pity. You had such an exquisite little voice. I regretted it after we parted. Two or three times it nearly brought me back to you—foi d’artiste!”