Prince. Well, then, I made a mistake there. Excuse me, I swear to you that I am going. My discretion and my reserve naturally made you believe that I was cured of my love.
Countess. Naturally.
Prince. Yes. Well, it is a mistake. I love you always. I love you like a fool, like a child, like an angel, like a savage, as you will. Having decided to go away, I wished first to make one supreme effort, a desperate one. The idea of that proverbe came to me. Under cover of that proverbe I promised myself to set my feelings before you, with so much fire, emotion, eloquence, wit, that you would be infallibly softened, fascinated, and overcome. You have seen how successful I was!—Isn’t it comic?—Now, madame, adieu.
Countess. Adieu, Prince.
Prince. One word more. Be gracious enough to tell me why you refused to marry me. My proposal was, in fact, perfectly honest and perfectly worthy of acceptance. Why did you repulse it with so much decision? Was it from caprice, from antipathy, or did you have some serious reason?
Countess. I had a serious reason.
Prince. You loved some one?
Countess. No one.
Prince. Then your heart was free, like your hand. You had not been, you told me so yourself, particularly happy with your husband—although he was charming, from what they say.
Countess. He was charming, altogether charming, sparkling and irresistible—like you—in days gone by.