"I have noticed one thing, Monsieur Callé."
"What is that, madame?"
"That there's a lot about love in all plays."
"Yes, that is true; you are right; they bring it in everywhere."
"Why is it, monsieur?"
"Why, madame, it is, apparently, because the authors don't know how to talk about anything else."
"Do you think so? I have heard people say that the stage was simply a copy of what happens in real life. But in real life people don't talk about love all the time, do they, monsieur?"
"Oh, no! madame, they don't always talk about it—although often—one would like to talk about it—but one doesn't dare."
"Oho! so it's because one doesn't dare. That is a great mistake! It seems to me that it's more interesting, more entertaining, than any other subject."
Young Callé had a declaration on the tip of his tongue. But the second act began, and he said nothing more. During the act, Éléonore dropped her opera glass on the floor. Callé instantly stepped forward to pick it up; but, in order to do it, he had to go to the front of the box and stoop until he was almost on his knees, for it was very dark, and he had to feel about on the floor. Instead of the opera glass, he seized Éléonore's foot and pressed it tenderly.