“Oh!” she murmured, “this is the moment when one should die!”

Phoebus found “the moment” favorable for robbing her of another kiss, which went to torture the unhappy archdeacon in his nook.

“Die!” exclaimed the amorous captain, “What are you saying, my lovely angel? ‘Tis a time for living, or Jupiter is only a scamp! Die at the beginning of so sweet a thing! Corne-de-boeuf, what a jest! It is not that. Listen, my dear Similar, Esmenarda — Pardon! you have so prodigiously Saracen a name that I never can get it straight. ‘Tis a thicket which stops me short.”

“Good heavens!” said the poor girl, “and I thought my name pretty because of its singularity! But since it displeases you, I would that I were called Goton.”