Three o'clock.
Françoise. You were very quiet, you naughty man!
Marcel. Were you jealous?
Françoise. The idea! I am morally certain that you love no one except your wife.
Marcel [sadly]. It's true, I love no one except my wife.
Françoise [chaffing him in turn]. Poor Marcel!
Marcel. I was bored to death at that supper; I can't imagine why.—They all tell me I'm getting stout.
Françoise. That's no reason why you shouldn't please.
Marcel. God is very unjust.
Françoise. So they say!
Marcel [stretching out on a sofa]. Excuse my appearance, won't you, Françoise? [Making himself comfortable.] I can't keep my eyes open any longer nowadays. The days of my youth—Why, I was—[He stops.]
Françoise. You were just the right age for marriage.
Marcel [as if to banish the idea]. Oh! [A pause.] I'm sure you will get along well with Guérin. Yours are kindred spirits—you're alike—not in looks, however.
Françoise. Morally, you mean?
Marcel. Yes, The comparison flatters him.
Françoise. He's like this, then; sentimental, a good friend, and a man of honor. Yes, I think I shall get along nicely with him.
Marcel. What a sympathetic nature you have! You've never seen him, and you know him already.
Françoise. How long has he been married?
Marcel. He was born married!
Françoise. Tell me.
Marcel. Ten years, I think.
Françoise. He's happy.
Marcel. Very.
Françoise. What sort of woman is she?
Marcel. Lively.
Françoise. Though virtuous?
Marcel. So they say.
Françoise. Then Madame Guérin and the handsome Martel—eh?
Marcel. A friend's wife?
Françoise. It's very tempting—[Marcel seems to take this with ill-humor; he is about to put on his hat.] Are you going out?
Marcel. I lunch at the club.
Françoise. Very well.
Marcel. I'm—a little nervous; I need a breath of air.
Françoise. Paris air!
Marcel. Precisely.
Françoise. And your work?
Marcel. I'm not in the mood.
Françoise. It's only ten days before the Salon: you'll never be ready.
Marcel. What chance have I, with my talent?
Françoise. You have a great deal of talent—it's recognized everywhere.
Marcel. I did have.
[A pause.]
Françoise. Will you be home for dinner?
Marcel [tenderly]. Of course! And don't allow any black suspicion to get the better of you: I'm not lunching with anybody!
Françoise. I suspect you!
Marcel [gratefully]. 'Til later, then! [A pause. Frankly.] Of course, I don't always go where I tell you I'm going. Why should I worry you? But if you think I—do what I ought not to do, you are mistaken. I'm no longer a bachelor, you know.
Françoise. Just a trifle, aren't you?
Marcel. No jealousy, dear! The day of adventures is dead and buried. Thirty-five mortal years, a scarcity of hair, a noticeable rotundity—and married! Opportunities are fewer now!
Françoise [playfully]. Don't lose courage, your luck may return. A minute would suffice.
Marcel [mournfully]. I don't dare hope.
Françoise. Married! It was never your destiny to be a proprietor, you are doomed to be a tenant.
Marcel [as he is about to leave, sees a letter on the table]. Oh, a letter, and you said nothing to me about it!
Françoise. I didn't see it. Jean must have brought it while you were asleep.
Marcel. From Passy! I know that hand! [Aside, with surprise.] Madame Guérin—Madeleine! Well! [Reading.] "My dear friend I lunch to-day with my aunt Madame de Monglat, at La Muette—as I used to. Come and see me before noon, I have serious things to discuss with you." [He stops reading; aside, much pleased.] A rendezvous! And after three years! Poor Guérin! No! It wouldn't be decent now! No!
Françoise [aside]. He seems to be waking up!
Marcel [aside]. They must have returned! Françoise was right—a minute would suffice! The dear girl!
Françoise. No bad news?
Marcel [in spite of himself]. On the contrary!
Françoise. Oh!
Marcel [embarrassed]. It's from that American woman who saw my picture the other day—at Goupil's, you remember? She insists that I give it to her for ten thousand francs. I really think I'll let her have it. Nowadays you never can tell—
Françoise. I think you would be very wise to sell.
Marcel [handing her the letter]. Don't you believe me?
Françoise. Absolutely.
[Marcel puts the letter in his pocket. A pause.]
Marcel [hesitating before he leaves; aside]. She's a darling; a perfect little darling.
Françoise. Then you're not going out?
Marcel [surprised]. Do you want to send me away?
Françoise. If you're going out to lunch, you had better hurry—the train leaves in a few minutes.
Marcel [suddenly affectionate]. How can I hurry when you are so charming? You're adorable this morning!
Françoise. D'you think so?
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