[Drinks.
La Gloire. Nay, I'll answer thee in that, though bumpers were Englishmen, and went against my French stomach. [Takes Wine.] Heaven bless thee, my poor Madelon! May a woman never tumble into the mire of distress; and, if she is in, ill befall him that won't help her clean out again.
[Drinks.
Madelon. There; enough.
[Comes from Table.
La Gloire. So: one kiss for a bonne bouche.—[Kisses her.]—Dost love me the better for this feast, now, Madelon?
Madelon. No, truly, not a jot. I love you e'en as well before dinner as after.
La Gloire. What a jewel is regular affection!—to love, equally, through the week, maigre days, and all! I cannot but own a full meal makes an improvement in the warmth of my feelings. I can eat and drink myself into a glow of tenderness, that fasting can never come up to. And what hast thou done in my absence, Madelon?
Madelon. Little, La Gloire, but grieve with the rest. I have thought on you; gone to confession in the morning; seemed happy, in the day, to cheer my poor old father:—but my heart was bursting, La Gloire:—and, at night, by myself, I looked at this little cross you gave me, and cried.
La Gloire. [Smothering his Tears.] Madelon, I,—I—I want another draught of burgundy.