“I wish I was dead!” she replies.
“Quite a merry and agreeable wish!”
“It isn’t death that frightens me, it’s suffering.”
“I suppose that means that I don’t make you happy! That’s the way with women!”
Adolphe strides about the room, talking incoherently: but he is brought to a dead halt by seeing Caroline dry her tears, which are really flowing artistically, in an embroidered handkerchief.
“Do you feel sick?”
“I don’t feel well. [Silence.] I only hope that I shall live long enough to see my daughter married, for I know the meaning, now, of the expression so little understood by the young—the choice of a husband! Go to your amusements, Adolphe: a woman who thinks of the future, a woman who suffers, is not at all diverting: come, go and have a good time.”
“Where do you feel bad?”
“I don’t feel bad, dear: I never was better. I don’t feel anything. No, really, I am better. There, leave me to myself.”
This time, being the first, Adolphe goes away almost sad.