Monsieur de Noirétable (gravely). He may be compelled to visit them, Madame. (She looks away.)
Madame d'Escurolles (is silent for a little while and then looks up at him as gravely). Must he visit so many towns?
Monsieur de Noirétable (slightly lifting his shoulders). Oh! Must! Must! Must is a strong word, Madame. But Does, Does; does is a working word, Madame. And a man does visit many towns, and he comes back to Compiègne.
Madame d'Escurolles (thoughtfully). Sir, Compiègne has age upon it, though you are pleased to call it by prettier names. Compiègne is even sad with age. I will not deny her charm, I will even concede her beauty—but it is harder than ever to-day to be content with Compiègne. (With a sudden change of tone.) We have spoken too much of cities. We old friends who do not dance treat the place too much like a card-room, and we converse when younger souls are full of the music.... Tell me, Monsieur de Noirétable—since the subject is more consonant with music and with dancing—are you fond of verse?
Monsieur de Noirétable (solemnly). I dote upon it! especially such verse as may be written in praise of Compiègne....
Madame d'Escurolles (laughing). Oh! Monsieur de Noirétable, you begin to be ridiculous. Come, is there no verse you may cite as your favourite?
Monsieur de Noirétable. Why, Madame, I fear to seem even more ridiculous if I quote Latin.
Madame d'Escurolles (good-humouredly). Not at all, sir! We know Latin in Compiègne!
Monsieur de Noirétable (grimly). So I seemed to remember. Well, then, I confess my favourite verse is the Horatian Ode which begins—
Donec gratus eram tibi ...