Françoise. Later! How I pity any one who loves and has to suffer for it!
Guérin [surprised]. You—!
Françoise. I am not on the side of the jealous, of the betrayed—
Guérin [aside, sympathetically]. Poor little woman! [With great sincerity.] Then you are not sure of him?
Françoise [more and more excited]. He is Marcel! Admit for a moment that he loves me to-day—I want so to believe it! To-morrow will he love me? Does he himself know whether he will love me then? Isn't he at the mercy of a whim, a passing fancy—of the weather, or the appearance of the first woman he happens to meet? I am only twenty, and I am not always as careful as I might be. Happiness is so difficult!
Guérin. Yes, it is. [To himself.] It is! [To Françoise.] Perhaps you are conscientious, too sincere?
Françoise. I feel that; yes, I think I am, but every time I try to hide my affection from him, he becomes indifferent, almost mean—as if he were glad to be relieved of a duty—of being good!
Guérin. So it's come to that!
Françoise. You see, Marcel can't get used to the idea that his other life is over, dead and buried, that he's married for good—that he must do as others do. I do my best and tell him, but my very presence only reminds him of his duties as a husband. For instance [interrupting herself]. Here I am telling you all this—
Guérin. Oh!—Please.