Baroness--If it was a rôle, you'll admit that it was much like a penitence.
Marquis--Not for you.
Baroness--What do you know about it?
Marquis--I read it in your hand. I even see that the contrary would cost you more, for nature has gifted your heart with unalterable calmness.
Baroness [drawing away her hand]--Say at once that I'm a monster.
Marquis--Time enough! The credulous think you a saint; the skeptics say you desire power; I, Guy François Condorier, Marquis d'Auberive, think you a clever little German, trying to build a throne for yourself in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. You have conquered the men, but the women resist you: your reputation offends them; and for want of a better weapon they use this miserable rumor I've just repeated. In short, your flag's inadequate and you're looking for a larger one. Henry IV. said that Paris was worth a mass. You think so too.
Baroness--They say sleep-walkers shouldn't be contradicted. However, do let me say that if I really wanted a husband--with my money and my social position, I might already have found twenty.
Marquis--Twenty, yes; but not one. You forget this little devil of a rumor.
Baroness [rising]--Only fools believe that.
Marquis [rising]--There's the hic. It's only very clever men, too clever, who court you, and you want a fool.