“What shall we do, dear cousin?” said Bertha to the false Sylvia.  “Do you like music?  We will play together.  Let us sing the lay of some sweet ancient bard.  Eh?  What do you say?  Come to my organ; come along.  As you love me, sing!”

Then she took Jehan by the hand and led him to the keyboard of the organ, at which the young fellow seated himself prettily, after the manner of women.  “Ah! sweet coz,” cried Bertha, as soon as the first notes tried, the lad turned his head towards her, in order that they might sing together.  “Ah! sweet coz you have a wonderful glance in your eye; you move I know not what in my heart.”

“Ah! cousin,” replied the false Sylvia, “that it is which has been my ruin.  A sweet milord of the land across the sea told me so often that I had fine eyes, and kissed them so well, that I yielded, so much pleasure did I feel in letting them be kissed.”

“Cousin, does love then, commence in the eyes?”

“In them is the forge of Cupid’s bolts, my dear Bertha,” said the lover, casting fire and flame at her.

“Let us go on with our singing.”

They then sang, by Jehan’s desire, a lay of Christine de Pisan, every word of which breathed love.

“Ah! cousin, what a deep and powerful voice you have.  It seems to pierce me.”

“Where?” said the impudent Sylvia.

“There,” replied Bertha, touching her little diaphragm, where the sounds of love are understood better than by the ears, but the diaphragm lies nearer the heart, and that which is undoubtedly the first brain, the second heart, and the third ear of the ladies.  I say this, with all respect and with all honour, for physical reasons and for no others.

“Let us leave off singing,” said Bertha; “it has too great an effect upon me.  Come to the window; we can do needlework until the evening.”

“Ah! dear cousin of my soul, I don’t know how to hold the needle in my fingers, having been accustomed, to my perdition to do something else with them.”

“Eh! what did you do then all day long?”

“Ah!  I yielded to the current of love, which makes days seem Instants, months seem days, and years months; and if it could last, would gulp down eternity like a strawberry, seeing that it is all youth and fragrance, sweetness and endless joy.”

Then the youth dropped his beautiful eyelids over his eyes, and remained as melancholy as a poor lady who has been abandoned by her lover, who weeps for him, wishes to kiss him, and would pardon his perfidy, if he would but seek once again the sweet path to his once-loved fold.

“Cousin, does love blossom in the married state?”

“Oh no,” said Sylvia; “because in the married state everything is duty, but in love everything is done in perfect freedom of heart.  This difference communicates an indescribable soft balm to those caresses which are the flowers of love.”

“Cousin, let us change the conversation; it affects me more than did the music.”