Among all the legacies of bygone years,
With their fleeting charms,
The ancient minuet pleases me most,
with its occasional skipping of the beat.

Yes, in those merry times,
Science was no more difficult
Than the sweep of a foot -- the clatter of heels
In tune to the measured sounds.

The merry ritournelle pleases me,
With its motley sparkling,
I love the melodious trilling of the violin,
And the call of the clamorous oboe.

But often their lively tune,
was pierced by a sad note,
And often, in the loud twirling of the ball
I heard a different echo.

As if it were an echo hurtled by
resounding baleful, merciless words,
And a face suddenly grew colder, in the midst of laughter,
A face ensconced in a wreath of fresh flowers.

So, while everyone was curtseying,
The fate of my grandmothers,
To the passionate whisper of the madrigal,
Was being decided.

Look: smoothly, proudly
A marquise glides before the crowd,
With a minister arm in arm: what a marvel!
But a tear glitters in her meek eyes...

Met with delight and admiration,
The tsarina of the ball is welcomed,
But on Temira's face there is a trace
Of struggle and secret suffering.

And every day a soothsayer
is summoned by Temira, in fear,
"Tell me, tell me my fate..."
"Mistress, your end will be on the scaffold."