Paul. I really don’t know what to do! If there were a chance, I should have no scruples about cheating some one at cards.
Madame P. Well indeed, in your position——
Prèzhnev (waking up). Paul, have you been to the theatre lately?
Paul. Quite lately.
Prèzhnev. Who plays the marquises now?
Paul. No one has done for some time.
Prèzhnev. I used to play marquises very well once.
(Madame Prèzhneva rings. Enter Footman.)
Madame P. Wheel your master out on to the balcony, and take some old newspapers and read aloud to him. (Footman takes newspapers and wheels Prèzhnev on to balcony.)
Paul. Then there’s my amiable uncle. Just because he’s been a judge somewhere, he puts on superior airs: “You want too much,” he says. What do I want? Have I ever asked for luxury and extravagance? I only want what is necessary, what a man in my set cannot do without. Surely that is plain enough. But no; my kind uncle tells me, “You have no right to want all these things, because you have no fortune.” Why! is it my fault that I have no fortune? What sort of logic is that?