Bertrand. Well?
Marcaire. Bitten!
Bertrand. Sold again!
Marcaire. Had he the wit of a lucifer-match! But what can gods or men against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that damned old man?
Dumont (entering). I hear you want me.
Marcaire. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad.
Dumont. Dear me, what is wrong?
Marcaire. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?
Dumont. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.