“What the deuce ails you? One would think the ants were at you,” said Juan to her, one morning.
“What ails me is that I have the biggest fool for a husband that ever ate bread.”
“Hey for the sweet tempers! So you are not yet content with the sweet little fig that your husband gathered for you?”
“No, sir, I am not. One must be a dolt like you to content herself with what we have, when we might have much more only for the asking.”
“But, woman alive, have you lost your senses? Can the emperor grant us more than he has granted us, or do we need more to make us happy?”
“Yes, he can give us more, and we need it.”
“Explain yourself, and the devil take the explanation, for you're going to drive me mad with your ambition.”
“Explain myself! I'll explain myself, and very clearly, too; for, thank God, there are no hairs on my tongue to prevent me speaking to anybody, even to the emperor himself. To make you happy, all that is wanting is what common folk want—a good table where you may stuff yourself with turkey all the day long; but for us who have higher aims, we want something more than chunks of meat and wine that would make an ox dance a hornpipe. You can swell yourself out and look big when you walk out here, and hear them calling you Don Juan; but as for me, I could eat myself with rage when they call me Doña Ramona.”
“Well, and isn't it better for them to call us that than Juan and Ramona, as they used to call us before? What more do you want, woman?”
“I want them to call me lady marchioness.”