Prince. That’s simple. I ask ten thousand pardons. It is perfectly evident! You see I am not myself at all any more. All my faculties—even my memory—are weakening. It is high time I go to recover strength in my native air. You see what my mother tells me?
Countess (running through the letter). She has the air of a noble woman, your mother.
Prince. Yes. We two are very fond of each other. She advises me not to have too much success, poor mother! She believes me always irresistible.
Countess. Then you have been so, my prince?
Prince. Why, yes, a little, up to the day I had the honor of meeting you—Well, what do you advise me?
Countess. To go, since your mother wishes to see you again.
Prince. That’s my advice, too, and to tell you the truth, I came this evening specially to bid you good-by.
Countess. What! to bid me good-by?—And that proverbe? What was the object of that joke?
Prince. That proverbe? Come, madame, I want the last impression you receive of me to be pleasant. You will laugh. Here is the history of that proverbe. You remember well enough that which passed between us two years ago, after I had vainly offered you my heart and my hand. It so happened that if I wished to continue to regard you as a friend, I must sternly refrain from all allusions to a love definitely repulsed. I gave you my word on the matter, and I expected to have kept it scrupulously.
Countess. That is true.