Widow. My poor son!--The young lady will never think of thee.

Mel. Do the stars think of us? Yet if the prisoner see them shine
into his dungeon, wouldst thou bid him turn away from their lustre?
Even so from this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to Pauline and
forget my chains.--[Goes to the picture and draws aside the curtain.]

See, this is her image--painted from memory. Oh, how the canvas
wrongs her!--[Takes up the brush and throws it aside.] I shall
never be a painter! I can paint no likeness but one, and that is
above all art. I would turn soldier--France needs soldiers!
But to leave the air that Pauline breathes! What is the hour?--
so late? I will tell thee a secret, mother. Thou knowest that
for the last six weeks I have sent every day the rarest flowers
to Pauline?--she wears them. I have seen them on her breast.
Ah, and then the whole universe seemed filled with odors!
I have now grown more bold--I have poured my worship into poetry--
I have sent the verses to Pauline--I have signed them with my own name.
My messenger ought to--be back by this time. I bade him wait
for the answer.

Widow. And what answer do you expect, Claude?

Mel. That which the Queen of Navarre sent to the poor troubadour:--"Let
me see the Oracle that can tell nations I am beautiful!"
She will admit me. I shall hear her speak--I shall meet her eyes--
I shall read upon her cheek the sweet thoughts that translate
themselves into blushes. Then--then, oh, then--she may forget
that I am the peasant's son!.