HENRIETTE. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course—Just think of it-
No, I am ashamed of telling—
MAURICE. Go on, go on!
HENRIETTE. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissecting the muscles on Adolphe's breast—you see, I am a sculptor—and he, with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but helped me instead with the worst places, as he knows more anatomy than I.
MAURICE. Was he dead?
HENRIETTE. No, he was living.
MAURICE. But that's horrible! And didn't it make YOU suffer?
HENRIETTE. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for I am rather sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that so, Adolphe?
ADOLPHE. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact, and not the least when animals are concerned.
MAURICE. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous toward the sufferings both of myself and others.
ADOLPHE. Now he is not telling the truth about himself. Or what do you say, Madame Catherine?