PERCINET. Listen to this; I thought it out when I was walking.
"The Fathers who are Mortal Enemies." First canto—
SYLVETTE. Oh!
PERCINET. [Ready to declaim] Er—
SYLVETTE. Oh!
PERCINET. What is the matter?
SYLVETTE. I imagine I am too happy—I'm nervous—I don't feel well. [She bursts into tears.] I'll be well in a moment. Let me be! [She turns her back and hides her face in a handkerchief.]
PERCINET. [Surprised] I'll leave you for a moment. [Aside] On a day like this, it's only too natural— [He goes to the right, sees the bill on the table, takes a pencil from his pocket, and sits down.] I'll just jot down those lines. [He picks up the bill, and starts to write; notices the writing and reads aloud] "I, Straforel, having pretended to be killed by a sword-thrust from a foolish young blade, hereby render account for torn clothes and wounded pride: forty francs." [Smiling] What is it? [He continues reading to himself, and his smile dies away.]
SYLVETTE. [Wiping her eyes] He would fall from the clouds if he knew! I must be careful!
PERCINET. [Rising] Well, well, well!
SYLVETTE. [Going toward him] What is it?