Madame Fourchambault--Madame Duhamel has been determined this long time to marry her daughter to the son of the prefect.
Fourchambault--I knew it. What about it?
Madame Fourchambault--While she was making a goose of herself so publicly, I was quietly negotiating, and Baron Rastiboulois is coming to ask our daughter's hand.
Fourchambault--That will never do! I'm planning quite a different match for her.
Madame Fourchambault--You? I should like to know--
Fourchambault--He's a fine fellow of our own set, who loves Blanche, and whom she loves if I'm not mistaken.
Madame Fourchambault--You are entirely mistaken. You mean Victor Chauvet, Monsieur Bernard's clerk?
Fourchambault--His right arm, rather. His alter ego.
Madame Fourchambault--Blanche did think of him at one time. But her fancy was just a morning mist, which I easily dispelled. She has forgotten all about him, and I advise you to follow her example.
Fourchambault--What fault can you find with this young man?