Françoise. Oh, Marcel's love for me—!
Guérin. Something lacking?
Françoise. No!
Guérin [interested]. Tell me. Am I not your friend?
Françoise. Seriously, Monsieur, you know him very well: how could he be in love with me? Is it even possible? He allows one to love him, and I ask nothing more.
Guérin. Nothing?
Françoise. Only to be allowed to continue. [Gesture from Guérin.] I am not like other women. I don't ask for rights; but I do demand tenderness, and consideration. He is free, I am not—I'll admit that. But I don't mind, I only hope that we may continue as we are!
Guérin. Have you some presentiment, Madame?
Françoise. I am afraid, Monsieur. My happiness is not of the proud, demonstrative variety, it is a kind of happiness that is continually trembling for its safety. If I told you—
Guérin. Do tell me!