LADY (prompt and businesslike). General: let us make a fair division. Take the information your spies have sent you about the Austrian army; and give me the Paris correspondence. That will content me.
NAPOLEON (his breath taken away by the coolness of the proposal). A fair di— (He gasps.) It seems to me, madame, that you have come to regard my letters as your own property, of which I am trying to rob you.
LADY (earnestly). No: on my honor I ask for no letter of yours—not a word that has been written by you or to you. That packet contains a stolen letter: a letter written by a woman to a man—a man not her husband—a letter that means disgrace, infamy—
NAPOLEON. A love letter?
LADY (bitter-sweetly). What else but a love letter could stir up so much hate?
NAPOLEON. Why is it sent to me? To put the husband in my power, eh?
LADY. No, no: it can be of no use to you: I swear that it will cost you nothing to give it to me. It has been sent to you out of sheer malice—solely to injure the woman who wrote it.
NAPOLEON. Then why not send it to her husband instead of to me?
LADY (completely taken aback). Oh! (Sinking back into the chair.) I—I don't know. (She breaks down.)
NAPOLEON. Aha! I thought so: a little romance to get the papers back. (He throws the packet on the table and confronts her with cynical goodhumor.) Per Bacco, little woman, I can't help admiring you. If I could lie like that, it would save me a great deal of trouble.