Marquise. Are they to say it of me then, monsieur? (She rises and stands by him, looking towards the Place, where the scaffold is now visible.)
Duc. (Removing his hat and bowing humbly.) I beg your pardon.
Marquise. (Very low.) Dear Louis, dear Louis!
Duc. I thought life done. I was wrong a thousand times!
Marquise. I cried when you——
Duc. Ah, if I beg them to torture me—— Would that atone?
Marquise. They found me crying. Think of the humiliation!
Duc. Oh, I must have a talk with a priest—after all I must! (She turns away with a sob and then a gasping laugh.) Ay, that’s life, dearest Marquise—and perhaps it’s the other thing too.
Marquise. I care less now, Louis.
Duc. Give me your hand a minute. Yes, it’s warmer now. And the rouge—why, madame, I swear the rouge is utterly superfluous! Shall we throw it to the mob? It’s their favourite colour. I’ll leave it in the cart—when they turn on one another, some hero may be glad of it. Margot, dear Margot, are you cold? I thought you shivered as your arm touched mine.