"What! You wicked man! you, too!"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Pray consider that—"
"My wife has told you, sir. We made a marriage of love, and, like her, I believe that love marriages are the only happy ones."
"To make merchandise of Antonine! I, counsel her to be guilty of an act of shocking meanness, a marriage of interest! to sell herself, in a word, when but an hour ago she confessed her pure and noble love to me! Ah, monsieur, I thought you had a higher opinion of me!"
"Come, come, now, my dear Dutertre, you are a man of sense, confess that these reasons are nothing but romance; help me to convince your wife."
"I repeat, monsieur, that I think as she does."
"Ah," exclaimed M. Pascal, "I did not expect to find here friends so cold and indifferent to what concerned me."
"Sir," exclaimed Sophie, "that reproach is unjust."
"Unjust! alas, I wish it were; but, indeed, I have too much reason to think differently. But a moment ago, your husband refused one of my requests, and now it is you. Ah, it is sad—sad. What can I rely upon after this?"