With very good manners.
Ang. The best possible.
Arg. And speaks both Latin and Greek.
Ang. Ah! that I don't know anything about.
Arg. And that he will in three days be made a doctor.
Ang. He, father?
Arg. Yes; did he not tell you?
Ang. No, indeed! who told you?
Arg. Mr. Purgon.
Ang. Does Mr. Purgon know him?
Arg. What a question! Of course he knows him, since he is his nephew.
Ang. Cléante is the nephew of Mr. Purgon?
Arg. What Cléante? We are speaking about him who has asked you in marriage.
Ang. Yes, of course.
Arg. Well, he is the nephew of Mr. Purgon, and the son of his brother-in-law, Mr. Diafoirus; and this son is called Thomas Diafoirus, and not Cléante. Mr. Fleurant and I decided upon this match this morning, and to-morrow this future son-in-law will be brought to me by his father… What is the matter, you look all scared?
Ang. It is because, father, I see that you have been speaking of one person, and I of another.
Toi. What! Sir, you have formed such a queer project as that, and, with all the wealth you possess, you want to marry your daughter to a doctor?
Arg. What business is it of yours, you impudent jade?
Toi. Gently, gently. You always begin by abuse. Can we not reason together without getting into a rage? Come, let us speak quietly. What reason have you, if you please, for such a marriage?
Arg. My reason is, that seeing myself infirm and sick, I wish to have a son-in-law and relatives who are doctors, in order to secure their kind assistance in my illness, to have in my family the fountain-head of those remedies which are necessary to me, and to be within reach of consultations and prescriptions.
Toi. Very well; at least that is giving a reason, and there is a certain pleasure in answering one another calmly. But now, Sir, on your conscience, do you really and truly believe that you are ill?
Arg. Believe that I am ill, you jade? Believe that I am ill, you impudent hussy?
Toi. Very well, then, Sir, you are ill; don't let us quarrel about that. Yes, you are very ill, I agree with you upon that point, more ill even than you think. Now, is that settled? But your daughter is to marry a husband for herself, and as she is not ill, what is the use of giving her a doctor?
Arg. It is for my sake that I give her this doctor, and a good daughter ought to be delighted to marry for the sake of her father's health.
Toi. In good troth, Sir, shall I, as a friend, give you a piece of advice?
Arg. What is this advice?
Toi. Not to think of this match.
Arg. And your reason?
Toi. The reason is that your daughter will never consent to it.
Arg. My daughter will not consent to it?
Toi. No.
Arg. My daughter?
Toi. Your daughter. She will tell you that she has no need of Mr. Diafoirus, nor of his son, Mr. Thomas Diafoirus, nor all the Diafoiruses in the world.
Arg. But I have need of them. Besides, the match is more advantageous than you think. Mr. Diafoirus has only this son for his heir; and, moreover, Mr. Purgon, who has neither wife nor child, gives all he has in favour of this marriage; and Mr. Purgon is a man worth eight thousand francs a year.
Toi. What a lot of people he must have killed to have become so rich!
Arg. Eight thousand francs is something, without counting the property of the father.
Toi. That is very well, Sir, but, all the same, I advise you, between ourselves, to choose another husband for her; she is not of a make to become a Mrs. Diafoirus.
Arg. But I will have it so.
Toi. Fie! nonsense! Don't speak like that.
Arg. Don't speak like that? Why not?
Toi. Dear me, no, don't.
Arg. And why should I not speak like that?
Toi. People will say that you don't know what you are talking about.
Arg. People will say all they like, but I tell you that I will have her make my promise good.
Toi. I feel sure that she won't.
Arg. Then I will force her to do it.
Toi. She will not do it, I tell you.
Arg. She will, or I will shut her up in a convent.
Toi. You?
Arg. I.
Toi. Good!
Arg. How good?
Toi. You will not shut her up in a convent.
Arg. I shall not shut her up in a convent?
Toi. No.
Arg. No?
Toi. No.
Arg. Well, this is cool! I shall not put my daughter in a convent if I like!
Toi. No, I tell you.
Arg. And who will hinder me?
Toi. You yourself.
Arg. Myself?
Toi. You will never have the heart to do it.
Arg. I shall.
Toi. You are joking.
Arg. I am not joking.
Toi. Fatherly love will hinder you.
Arg. It will not hinder me.
Toi. A little tear or two, her arms thrown round your neck, Or "My darling little papa," said very tenderly, will be enough to touch your heart.
Arg. All that will be useless.
Toi. Oh yes!
Arg. I tell you that nothing will move me.
Toi.
