Countess. Let us return. Where were we?—“The Count, the Countess—”
Prince. The truth is you ought to consider me a regular imbecile.
Countess. Is it the Count says that?
Prince. No, it is I.
Countess. Not at all—I find you only a little odd.
Prince. Odd! You are very kind—But no, really; I beg of you to inquire at the Embassy—they will tell you that I do not lack intelligence, and that at other times I had even a sort of inspiration.
Countess. But, my Prince, I have no need to inquire at the Embassy, I have only to remember. I have known you to be extremely brilliant, several months ago when you were making love to me.
Prince. Brilliant, no; but I was as good as another at any rate.
Countess. Yes, yes, I insist—You were a brilliant young man, sparkling, dreadful!—(She rubs her hands softly.)
Prince. You are making fun of me—I was not sparkling, but I had some vivacity—and that was but two years ago! It is true that I had only just arrived at Paris,—and that I had not yet passed under the influence of the climate.