GUIMARD. Four years on the day of Saint Nicholas.
BISKRA. And he can already stand behind the curtain with his arm around the neck of another man's wife?
GUIMARD. No, he cannot—but it is he!
BISKRA. Four years old, you say, and he has a blond mustache?
GUIMARD. A blond mustache, you say?—Oh, that's—my friend Jules.
BISKRA. Who is standing behind the curtain with his arm around your wife's neck?
GUIMARD. Oh, you devil!
BISKRA. Do you see your son?
GUIMARD. No, I don't see him any longer.
BISKRA. [Imitates the tolling of bells on the guitar] What do you see now?