Thus talking agreeable nonsense, tasting agreeable dishes, and sipping agreeable wines, an hour ran on.  Sweetest music from an unseen source ever and anon sounded, and Spiridion swung a censer full of perfumes around the chamber.  At length the duke requested Count Frill to give them a song.  The Bird of Paradise would never sing for pleasure, only for fame and a slight check.  The count begged to decline, and at the same time asked for a guitar.  The signora sent for hers; and his Excellency, preluding with a beautiful simper, gave them some slight thing to this effect:—­

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta! 
What a gay little girl is charming Bignetta! 
She dances, she prattles,
She rides and she rattles;
But she always is charming—­that charming Bignetta!

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta! 
What a wild little witch is charming Bignetta! 
When she smiles I’m all madness;
When she frowns I’m all sadness;
But she always is smiling—­that charming Bignetta!

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta! 
What a wicked young rogue is charming Bignetta! 
She laughs at my shyness,
And flirts with his highness;
Yet still she is charming—­that charming Bignetta!

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta! 
What a dear little girl is charming Bignetta! 
“Think me only a sister,”
Said she trembling; I kissed her. 
What a charming young sister is—­charming Bignetta!

He ceased; and although

“—­the Ferrarese
To choicer music chimed his gay guitar
In Este’s halls,”

as Casti himself, or rather Mr. Rose, choicely sings, yet still his song served its purpose, for it raised a smile.

“I wrote that for Madame Sapiepha, at the Congress of Verona,” said Count Frill.  “It has been thought amusing.”

“Madame Sapiepha!” exclaimed the Bird of Paradise.  “What! that pretty little woman who has such pretty caps?”

“The same!  Ah! what caps! Mon Dieu! what taste! what taste!”

“You like caps, then?” asked the Bird of Paradise, with a sparkling eye.

“Oh! if there be anything more than other that I know most, it is the cap.  Here, voici!” said he, rather oddly unbuttoning his waistcoat, “you see what lace I have got. Voici! voici!”

“Ah! me! what lace! what lace!” exclaimed the Bird in rapture.  “St. James, look at his lace.  Come here, come here, sit next me.  Let me look at that lace.”  She examined it with great attention, then turned up her beautiful eyes with a fascinating smile. “Ah! c’est jolie, n’est-ce pas? But you like caps.  I tell you what, you shall see my caps.  Spiridion, go, mon cher, and tell ma’amselle to bring my caps—­all my caps, one of each set.”

In due time entered the Swiss, with the caps—­all the caps—­one of each set.  As she handed them in turn to her mistress, the Bird chirped a panegyric upon each.