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She sang, of course, "M'ama!" and not "he loves me," since an unalterable and unquestioned law of the musical world required that the German text of French operas sung by Swedish artists should be translated into Italian for the clearer understanding of English-speaking audiences.
"M'ama ... non m'ama ..." the prima donna sang, and "M'ama!", with a final burst of love triumphant, as she pressed the dishevelled daisy to her lips and lifted her large eyes to the sophisticated countenance of the little brown Faust-Capoul, who was vainly trying, in a tight purple velvet doublet and plumed cap, to look as pure and true as his artless victim.
"M'ama!" thrilled out the triumphant Marguerite; and the occupants of the box looked up in surprise at Archer's entrance. He had already broken one of the rules of his world, which forbade the entering of a box during a solo. Slipping between Mr. van der Luyden and Sillerton Jackson, he leaned over his wife.
And then, suddenly, with a rich and splendid basso that seemed to thrill every fibre of the planking, Sparicio joined in the song: "M'ama pur d'amore eterno, Ne deilitto sembri a te; T'assicuro che l'inferno Una favola sol e." ... All the roughness of the man was gone! To Julien's startled fancy, the fishers had ceased to be; lo! Carmelo was a princely page; Sparicio, a king!
Mingott's box, but it remained empty; and he sat motionless, his eyes fastened on it, till suddenly Madame Nilsson's pure soprano broke out into "M'ama, non m'ama ..." Archer turned to the stage, where, in the familiar setting of giant roses and pen-wiper pansies, the same large blonde victim was succumbing to the same small brown seducer.
The voice was speaking now with a sort of whimsical and half-pathetic merriment, as if inclined to break into laughter at its own childish wistfulness. "M'ama; nun m'ama?" It broke off. He heard a little laugh. Then the song began again: "Maju viju, e maju cògghiu, Bona sorti di Diù vògghiu; Ciuri di maju cògghiu a la campía, Diù, pinz
And then Carmelo sang, loud and clearly, the song he had been singing before, one of those artless Mediterranean ballads, full of caressing vowel-sounds, and young passion, and melancholy beauty: "M'ama ancor, belta fulgente, Come tu m'amasti allor; Ascoltar non dei gente, Solo interroga il tuo cor." ... "He sing-a nicee, mucha bueno!" murmured the fisherman.
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