MME. CATHERINE. I don't know of anybody with a softer heart than Monsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the police because I didn't give the goldfish fresh water—those over there on the buffet. Just look at them: it is as if they could hear what I am saying.
MAURICE. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind of polite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned—So you are a sculptor, Mademoiselle Henriette?
HENRIETTE. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to do one of you—which has long been my cherished dream—I hold myself quite capable.
MAURICE. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be long in coming true.
HENRIETTE. But I don't want to fix your features in my mind until this evening's success is over. Not until then will you have become what you should be.
MAURICE. How sure you are of victory!
HENRIETTE. Yes, it is written on your face that you are going to win this battle, and I think you must feel that yourself.
MAURICE. Why do you think so?
HENRIETTE. Because I can feel it. This morning I was ill, you know, and now I am well.
(ADOLPHE begins to look depressed.)