Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,
And, as he whistled along the hall,
Entered Jane, the crippled crone.
“Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!
I am faint, and weary, and out of breath!
But thou art cold,—art chill as death;
My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?”
“Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;
And, as I listened to the song,
I thought my turn would come erelong,
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.
Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
To me such joy they prophesy,
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide
When they behold him at my side.
And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou?
It must seem long to him;—methinks I see him now!”
Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press:
“Thy love I cannot all approve;
We must not trust too much to happiness;—
Go, pray to God, that thou mayest love him less!”
“The more I pray, the more I love!
It is no sin, for God is on my side!”
It was enough; and Jane no more replied.
Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;
But to deceive the beldame old
She takes a sweet, contented air;
Speak of foul weather or of fair,
At every word the maiden smiles!
Thus the beguiler she beguiles;
So that, departing at the evening’s close,
She says, “She may be saved! she nothing knows!”
As Jane turns to go, Margaret cries out:
[Margaret needs to use her words. Take me back!]
| Michel-Ange – Auteuil |  |
Jasmin |  |
Ranelagh |