“‘Mignonne, allons voir si la rose, Qui ce matin avoit desclose Sa robe de pourpre au soleil, A point perdu, ceste vesprée, Les plis de sa robe pourprée, Et son teint au vostre pareil.’” He stopped. “Sing on, my heart,” whispered Théroigne. “Monsieur the Englishman does not approve my music.” “Monsieur!” began the girl, in great scorn; but, to stay her, St Denys lifted up his voice a second time:-- “When Clœlia proved obdurate To Phædon’s fond advances, Repaid with scorn his woful state, With flout his utterances, ‘Forego,’ he cried, ‘this acrid strain, From such sweet lips a schism, And dumbly quit me of my pain By posy symbolism! ‘For hope, a white rose; for despair, A red, pluck to thy bosom!’-- He turned; then looked--the wilful fair Had donned a crimson blossom. But, so it chanced, within the cup A cupid, honey-tipsy, In rage at being woken up, Thrust out and stung the gipsy. Then, all compunction for his deed, For cap to the disaster, Rubbed Phædon’s lips with honey-mead, To serve the wound for plaster.” “Is it pretty or not, monsieur?” asked Théroigne mockingly, advancing her foot and giving Ned a little peck in the back with it. “It suits the occasion, mademoiselle, and, no doubt, the company.” St Denys laughed out. “Hear the grudging ascetic!” he cried. “It is martial music that shall fire this temperate blood! _Ho_, Boppard, _mon petit chiffon_! give him a taste of thy quality.” “He will laugh at me, Basile.” Nevertheless, the sizar got upon his legs. It brought him three feet nearer the stars. His voice was a protesting little organ; but the spirit that inspired it was many degrees above proof. He sang:-- “Decorous ways, Though Mammon praise With self-protective art-- We’ve learnt through ruth, The damnèd truth, Why he affects the part. Courage, then! Courage, my children! Virtue is all gammon, Imposed on us by Mammon, Not to spoil the fashion. Giving him monopoly--hatefully, improperly-- Of the sweets of passion. --Monsieur, I will not be laughed at.” “A thousand pardons,” said Ned. “I thought from your expression you were going to be sick. But, never mind. Go on!” “I will go on or not as I please. I protest, at least, I can crow as well as monsieur.” “Like a bantam cock on a dunghill, little Boppard. You hail the awaking of the proletariat. And are the verses your own?” “I will not tell you. I will not tell you anything. I have never been so insulted.”