Marcel. Perhaps! But I think I adore you! Every time I leave you, I feel so lonely; I wander about like a lost soul! I think something must be happening to you. And when I come home at midnight, and open the door, I feel an exquisite sensation—Is that love? You ought to know—you are an adept!
Françoise. Perhaps.
Marcel [unthinkingly]. You know, Françoise, one can never be sure of one's self.
Françoise. Of course!
Marcel. No one can say, "I love to-day, and I shall love to-morrow." You or any one else.
Françoise [offended]. I?
Marcel. How can you tell, whether in fifteen years—?
Françoise. Oh, I'm a little child—I'm different from the others: I shall always love the same man all his life. But go on, you were saying?
Marcel. Nothing. I want you to be happy, in spite of everything, no matter what may happen—no matter what I may do.
Françoise. Even if you should deceive me?