Madame—Why, you admitted it to me yourself one night, on the Pont des
Arts, as we were walking home from the theatre.
Monsieur—After all, there is no great harm in that.
Madame—(sadly)—I am not angry with you, this sternness is part of your nature, you are a rod of iron.
Monsieur—I have some energy when it is needed, I grant you, but I have not the absurd pride you imagine, and there (he dips his finger in the paste and carries it to his lips), is the proof, you spoilt child. Are you satisfied? It has no taste, it is insipid.
Madame—You were pretending.
Monsieur—I swear to you . . .
Madame (taking a little soon, filling it with her precious paste and holding it to her husband's lips)—I want to see the face you will make, love.
Monsieur—(Puts out his lips, buries his two front teeth, with marked disgust, in the paste, makes a horrible face and spits into the fireplace)—Eugh.
Madame—(still holding the spoon and with much interest) Well?
Monsieur—Well! it is awful! oh! awful! taste it.