The barmaid and her monsieur were trying to remember the beautiful air Jeannette sings as she mends her angry husband’s breeches:
“Cours, mon aiguille, dans la laine!
Ne te casse pas dans ma main;
Avec de bons baisers demain
Jean nous paîra de notre peine!”
So Barty sang it to them; and so beautifully that they were all but melted to tears—especially the monsieur, who was evidently very sentimental and very much in love. Besides, there was that ineffable charm of the pure French intonation, so caressing to the Belgian ear, so dear to the Belgian soul, so unattainable by Flemish lips. It was one of Barty’s most successful ditties—and if I were a middle-aged burgher of Mechelen, I shouldn’t much like to have a young French Barty singing “Cours, mon aiguille” to the girl of my heart.
Th
