PERCINET. I am so tired.
SYLVETTE. [Looking at his arm, with a cry] Wounded!
PERCINET. Can you pity the ungrateful?
SYLVETTE. [Severely] Only fathers kill fatted calves. Still, that wounded arm?
PERCINET. Oh, I assure you it's not serious.
SYLVETTE. But what have you been doing, Monsieur Vagabond, all this while?
PERCINET. Nothing very creditable, Sylvette. [He coughs.]
SYLVETTE. You are coughing?
PERCINET. Walking the damp roads at night.
SYLVETTE. What strange clothes you have!