Duke. I was thinking of his new piece that they are playing at the Comédie—there is such a pretty simile in it. Don't you remember?
François. I have no memory for verses.
Duke. Nor have I, unfortunately ... I only remember the sense. He says, youth which a man does not enjoy is like a feather-ball, which you leave lying in the sand instead of throwing it up into the air.
Albin (like a wiseacre). I think that is quite right.
Duke. Is it not true? The feathers gradually lose their color and fall out. 'Tis better for it to fall into a bush where it cannot be found.
Albin. How should one understand that, Emile?
Duke. 'Tis more a matter of feeling than of understanding. If I could repeat the verses, you would understand it at once.
Albin. I have an idea, Emile, that you, too, could make verses if you wished.
Duke. Why?
Albin. Since you have been here, it seems to me as though life were flaming up.