Monsieur—Kind to do what? Come, dear, explain yourself.
Madame—You must first of all take off that great, ugly dressing-gown, pull on your boots, put on your hat and go. Oh, don't make any faces; if you grumble in the least all the merit of your devotedness will disappear . . . and go to the grocer's at the corner of the street, a very respectable shop.
Monsieur—To the grocer's at ten o'clock at night! Are you mad? I will ring for John; it is his business.
Madame (staying his hand) You indiscreet man. These are our own private affairs; we must not take any one into our confidence. I will go into your dressing-room to get your things, and you will put your boots on before the fire comfortably . . . to please me, Alfred, my love, my life. I would give my little finger to have . . .
Monsieur—To have what, hang it all, what, what, what?
Madame—(her face alight and fixing her eyes on him)—I want a sou's worth of paste. Had not you guessed it?
Monsieur—But it is madness, delirium, fol—
Madame—I said paste, dearest; only a sou's worth, wrapped in strong paper.
Monsieur—No, no. I am kind-hearted, but I should reproach myself—
Madame—(closing his mouth with her little hands)—Oh, not a word; you are going to utter something naughty. But when I tell you that I have a mad longing for it, that I love you as I have never loved you yet, that my mother had the same desire—Oh! my poor mother (she weeps in her hands), if she could only know, if she were not at the other end of France. You have never cared for my parents; I saw that very well on our wedding-day, and (she sobs) it will be the sorrow of my whole life.