I looked at dear Rosette; that’s my reward.
Pierre.—(To himself)
The angel who carved this knows well his trade.
Saint Rose.—(To Jacqueline)
Now speak to him.
Pierre. (To himself)
I should be proud myself——
Jacqueline.—
You’re home at last, Pierre?
(Pierre rises quickly, turns, sees his wife, then looks at the floor, ashamed.)