Marcel [aside]. Curious, but every time I have a rendezvous, she is like that!
Françoise. Good-by, then; I've had enough of you! If you stay you'll upset all my plans. I'd quite made up my mind to be melancholy and lonely. It's impossible to be either gay or sad with you! Run along!
Marcel [taking off his hat, which he had put on some moments before]. I tell you this is my house, and this my studio. Your house is there by the garden.
Françoise. Yes, it's only there that you are my husband.
Marcel. Oh! [Reproachfully, and with tenderness.] Tell me, Françoise, why don't you ever want to go out with me?
Françoise. You know I don't like society.
Marcel. I'm seen so much alone!
Françoise. So much the better for you; you will be taken for a bachelor!
Marcel. One might think the way you talk, that husband and wife ought never to live together.
Françoise. Perhaps I'd see you oftener if we weren't married!
Marcel. Isn't it a pleasure to you, Madame, to be in the arms of your husband?
Françoise. Isn't it likewise a pleasure to be able to say, "He is free, I am not his wife, he is not my husband; I am not his duty, a millstone around his neck; I am his avocation, his love? If he leaves me, I know he is tired of me, but if he comes back, then I know he loves me"?
Marcel. Françoise, you are an extremist!
Françoise. You think so?
Marcel. You are.
Françoise. Well?
Marcel. I know your philosophy is nothing but love. [A pause.] You cry sometimes, don't you? When I'm not here?
Françoise. Just a little.
Marcel. I make you very unhappy! When you are sad, don't conceal it from me, Françoise; one of your tears would make me do anything in the world for you.
Françoise. One, yes! But, many?
Marcel. Don't make fun of me: I am serious. If I told you that my affection for you is as great as yours, I—
Françoise. You would be lying.
Marcel. Perhaps! But I think I adore you! Every time I leave you, I feel so lonely; I wander about like a lost soul! I think something must be happening to you. And when I come home at midnight, and open the door, I feel an exquisite sensation—Is that love? You ought to know—you are an adept!
Françoise. Perhaps.
Marcel [unthinkingly]. You know, Françoise, one can never be sure of one's self.
Françoise. Of course!
Marcel. No one can say, "I love to-day, and I shall love to-morrow." You or any one else.
Françoise [offended]. I?
Marcel. How can you tell, whether in fifteen years—?
Françoise. Oh, I'm a little child—I'm different from the others: I shall always love the same man all his life. But go on, you were saying?
Marcel. Nothing. I want you to be happy, in spite of everything, no matter what may happen—no matter what I may do.
Françoise. Even if you should deceive me?
Marcel [tenderly]. Deceive you? Never! I care nothing about other women! You are my happiness—not a mere pastime.
Françoise. Alas!
Marcel. Why alas?
Françoise. Because it is easier to do without happiness than pleasure.
Marcel [tenderly]. Oh, you are all that is highest and best in my life. I prefer you to everything else! Let a woman come between us, and she shall have me to deal with! Call it selfishness, if you will, or egotism—but your peace of mind is an absolute necessity to me!
Françoise. You need not prepare me for the future, you bad boy: I resigned myself to "possibilities" some time ago. I'm inexperienced and young in years, but I'm older than you.
Marcel. Shall I tell you something? I never deserved you!
Françoise. That's true.
Marcel. When I think how happy you might have made some good and worthy man, and that—
Françoise. Who then would have made me happy?
Marcel. You are not happy now.
Françoise. I didn't marry for happiness; I married in order to have you.
Marcel. I'm a fool! It would be nice, wouldn't it, if I were an unfaithful husband!
Françoise. I'm sure you will never be that.
Marcel. Do you really think so?
Françoise. I am positive. What would be the use in deceiving me? I should be so unhappy, and you wouldn't be a bit happier.
Marcel. You are right.
Françoise. No, you will not deceive me. To begin with, I have great luck.
Marcel [gayly]. Of course, you have; you don't know how much!
Françoise [coquettishly]. Tell me!
Marcel. What a child you are!
Marcel. I should think so! Sometimes I imagine that my happiness does not lie altogether in those sparkling eyes of yours and I try to fall in love with another woman; I fall in deeper and deeper for a week or two, and think I am terribly infatuated. But just as I am about to take the fatal leap, I fail: Françoise' luck, you see! At bottom, I'm a commencer; I can't imagine what it is that saves me—and you. Sometimes she has done something to displease me, sometimes a divine word from your lips—and a mere nothing, something quite insignificant! For instance, Wednesday, I missed the train, and came back and had dinner with you. You see, Françoise' luck!
Françoise. Then you're not going out to-day, are you?
Marcel. Nor to-morrow; the whole day is yours. We'll close the door.
Françoise. Aren't you happy?
Marcel [kissing her behind the ear]. Hurry up, you lazy child!
Françoise. I'm not pretty, but I have my good points.
Marcel. Not pretty?
Françoise. No, but I deserve to be.
[Madeleine appears at the back.]
Madeleine.
