Marquise, do you remember
the minuet that we danced?
It was discreet, noble and gentle
like the harmony of our two souls.

In the groves the rustic pipes
play those pure slow notes.
It was an air by the great Rameau
from his opera Les Indes Galantes.

You triumphed, you surprised and won
all hearts and all compliments,
in your dress with the crinoline hoops,
your dress with the large floral patterns.

With your gloved fingers, in time
with the gentle rhythm, you lifted
the left and right hems of your skirt
clasped between thumb and forefinger.

Many a fair young rival of yours
in the Trianon Palace, envied
the cute and exquisite play
of your little feet in dancing shoes.

And you, distracted by the pleasure
you felt at making them suffer,
when the music changed to A minor,
failed to make the customary curtsey.