No, I don’t regret anything. Not really.
Not a thing. Mind you, perhaps
Edith might have been happier
had I not forced her to sing.
And maybe three and a half was too young
to be wheeled round the streets on a barrow.
But her voice was that of a nightingale
though her legs were those of a sparrow.
Regrets? Non! Except perhaps
setting fire to the Moulin Rouge
after battering a money-lender
and throwing his body into the Seine.
Apart from that, I have no regrets.
Rien de tout. The bank robbery?
Possibly, and deserting her mother.
But I was an acrobat, I needed space.
Had I stayed she might have provided
for her dad in his old age. Let me share
her limelight. But no, I have no regrets.
Non, je ne regrette rien.