Marcel emptied his glass.
—Is she possessed of a husband?
—But uncle, I don't know, what you want to talk about.
—Oh, how well dissimulation is grafted in this young man's heart. I congratulate you on it: it is good for strangers, for the profane…. But I, Marcel, I, am I a stranger?
"Brought up in the Seraglio, I know its windings."
Come, another drop of this wine which could make the dead laugh.
—Listen, uncle, you are my second father, my master, my first director, my only true friend. Yes, I want to ask your advice. I am afraid of soiling one day the robe which I wear, I am afraid of becoming an object of shame and compassion. Ah, I am unhappy.
—Here we are, cried Ridoux. Speak. The only point is to understand one another.