There it is—the line glides in cool and plain, already a little shaded.

Soft ground under it, no hurry. Every small bend in the tune counts.

Same step again, just under a darker light. Nothing breaks.

We're settled in the long walk now. The beat stays trustworthy, but the accents lean instead of locking down.

Melody comes back a little more exposed. That soft repeated ground keeps insisting underneath.

Voices—names like masks. Myrtille, Lydé, queens of the heart, proud and provocative on the same courtly step.

"Observez la mesure"—watch the measure. That's been the whole law since the first step.

They call the insult mortal and say the cadence is less slow—still no shove from the band, only the polished tread carrying the sting.

Laquais, laids, chers minois—mockery and flattery in the same breath, still inside the dance.

The name-list returns. Same procession, same roles, already circling.

"Always the same, and always like this." The words finally admit the loop the music has been walking.

We adore, we hate, we curse our loves—and the arrangement stays cool. The reversal doesn't heat the room; it makes the composure colder.

Same adore-and-hate line again. Feeling keeps flipping while the step refuses to act any of it out.

Adieu to the mockers and tyrants of the heart—farewell said with full manners.

Support eases off by degrees. The line keeps its old poise as the ground thins into air.