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Updated: May 28, 2025
There is money in the invention, or that old gimlet-eye would not be so keen about it; I talked the matter over with him at Armenonville the other night." "Then shall you write or shall I?" said Theodora, as evenly as she could. "Her servant is waiting." Theodora hummed to herself a glad little chansonnette as she changed her breakfast negligee for the freshest and loveliest of her spring frocks.
While the little young men smiled, approved and loudly applauded, the old ambassador to whom the interests of a people were entrusted, hummed in a low tone, amid the noise of the reception: "Aoh! aoh! Je suis mélède, Bien mélède! Très mélède!" Guy de Lissac shrugged his shoulders. He had heard a great deal of this man. This diplomat of the chansonnette evoked his pity. Where was he then?
I often sang for her, and she liked everything I sang Italian stornelli, old-fashioned American negro songs, and even the very light modern French chansonnette, when there was any melody in them. There were two other arm-chairs at the table, destined for W. and me. I will say W. never occupied his.
En attendant she rattled off a sparkling French chansonnette with such élan that every man in the room, musical or otherwise, was soon round the piano. Her voice was harsh and wiry; but there was an oddity and originality in her style, while she pronounced the words with a vehement clearness, that drove their meaning home to the dullest ear. Mr.
Remember ye have asked no pairson at a' to dine with ye as yet, it's a vera sudden an' exceptional freak o' hospitality." Errington smoked on peacefully and made no answer. Duprez hummed a verse of a French chansonnette under his breath and smiled. Lorimer glanced at him with a lazy amusement. "Unburden yourself, Pierre, for heaven's sake!" he said.
Stanford listened to it, his sunny face overcast. "Why did you sing that?" he asked abruptly, when she had done. "Don't you like it?" "No; I don't like cynicism set to music. Here is a French chansonnette sing me that." Kate sang for him song after song. The momentary pain the announcement of his departure had given her wore away.
Blue dragon flies drifted on glimmering wings; she put them into her song; the meadow was gay with butterflies’ painted wings; she sang about them, too. Cloud and azure sky, tree tops and clover, the tiny rivulet dancing through deep grasses, the wind furrowing the fields, all these she put into her chansonnette de laveuse.
She sang a little chansonnette, which, just then, half Europe was humming, it occurred in an opera which they were acting at one of the Boulevard theatres, "La P'tite Voyageuse." The effect, coming so unexpectedly, was startling. I stood and heard her to an end.
Then du Maurier would sing the French "romance" or the English song, or he would "dire la chansonnette," and what with his sympathetic tenor and his intuitive knowledge of music, he seemed to be able to express more than many who had had the advantage of a musical training.
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