MARSHAL. Against each other? How do you mean?—and how would that be possible.
PRESIDENT. Everything is ours could we make him suspect the girl.
MARSHAL. Ah, of theft, you mean?
PRESIDENT. Pshaw!—he would never believe that! No, no—I mean that she is carrying on an intrigue with another.
MARSHAL. And this other, who is he to be?
PRESIDENT. Yourself!
MARSHAL. How? Must I be her lover? Is she of noble birth?
PRESIDENT. What signifies that? What an idea!—she is the daughter of a musician.
MARSHAL. A plebeian?—that will never do!
PRESIDENT. What will never do? Nonsense, man! Who in the name of wonder would think of asking a pair of rosy cheeks for their owner's pedigree?