[Exit hurriedly.
DIANE.
When he has saved my father—death shall deliver me.
[Exit.
POTIN enters cautiously, with various things hidden under his clothes, giving him a grotesque appearance.
POTIN.
Now, O Fate, is your chance to protect a patriot! If I can only get away,—I shall escape perjury in Court, and tongue-lashing from my wife!—Now to run!—To run for Vendée! Better the awful thunder of masculine war than the piercing tenderness of a woman's tongue!
[Starting to run of, he begins to sing—to the tune of the Marseillaise chorus:]
To leave—to leave my wife!—