This bachelor was the young Sire Jehan de Sacchez, cousin of the Sieur de Montmorency, to whom, by the death of the said Jehan, the fiefs of Sacchez and other places would return, according to the deed of tenure.  He was twenty years of age and glowed like a burning coal; therefore you may be sure that he had a hard job to get through the first day.  While old Imbert was galloping across the fields, the two cousins perched themselves under the lantern of the portcullis, in order to keep him the longer in view, and waved him signals of farewells.  When the clouds of dust raised by the heels of the horses were no longer visible upon the horizon, they came down and went into the great room of the castle.

“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.”