"In that case I will sing you a charming villanelle." "Mercy! that will be the third of those you have taught me. Don't you know any others?" [Illustration] "Pardon me, but as a cursed dog ran off with my ruff while I was being shaved, I cannot venture a new song while my throat is naked; it would embarrass the middle notes. Nevertheless, the villanelle is always a novelty, since I ever sing it with variations." "Well, I'll listen," said Blanche, glancing towards the street. Chaudoreille heaved another sigh, and when he had taken a position which seemed to him more favorable for displaying his graces, he commenced the villanelle, which he sang to Blanche every time that he gave her a lesson:-- I have lost my turtle-dove, And her flight I must pursue,-- Is she not the one I love? You regret your own fond dove, As the loss of mine I rue; I have lost my turtle-dove. At this moment some perambulating singers came into the street. They stationed themselves in front of the barber's house and, accompanying themselves on their mandolins, sang some Italian songs. Blanche listened eagerly; this music, so different from that which she heard from her master of the sitar, stirred her pulses deliciously, and approaching the window she cried,-- "Oh, how pretty that is!" "Yes, undoubtedly it's pretty," said Chaudoreille, who believed the young girl to be speaking of the villanelle; "but it's necessary to acquire the same expression that I have given it. Notice it well, 'I have lost my turtle-dove,'--the accent tremulous with grief; raise the eyes to the ceiling, beat time with the left foot. 'And her flight I must pursue,'--a distracted air, and always the same accompaniment with the thumb and index finger. 'Is she not the one I love?'--a soft, flute-like sound, and make a movement of surprise while sustaining the falsetto. 'You regret your own fond dove,--' that demands much expression. 'You regret,'--an exquisitely performed shake,--'your own fond dove,'--inflate the sound and ascend still." "Ah, I should be contented if I could only hear such music often," said Blanche, who had paid no attention to what Chaudoreille was saying, and had listened only to the Italians. "I should much like to give you a lesson every day, lovely damsel; but my occupations overwhelm me--and then, Master Touquet does not often permit me the pleasure of seeing you; when far from you I sing without ceasing,-- You regret your own fond dove." "It's a barcarolle--is it not, monsieur?" "No, my dear girl; that's called a villanelle, the favorite song of our ancient troubadours, and of shepherds who bemoaned their shepherdesses." "What a pity that I don't know Italian!" "What do you require Italian for,--in order to say, Is she not the one I love?" "Be quiet, be quiet; they're singing in French now," said Blanche, pressing close to the window-panes, and signing with her hand to Chaudoreille not to stir.