Macaire. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I’m dangerous.
Bertrand. It’s all right, Macaire; I’m going.
Macaire. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (Full daylight: lights up. Macaire blows out lantern.)
Bertrand. Where’s the key?
Macaire. Key? I tell you to pick it.
Bertrand (with the box). But it’s a patent lock. Where is the key? You had it.
Macaire. Will you pick that lock?
Bertrand. I can’t; it’s a patent. Where’s the key?
Macaire. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass’s pocket.
Bertrand. Bitten, I think. (Macaire dancing mad.)