Count.—Hum! Any thing more, cousin?
Vic.—Yes: you should write sonnets on the sole of my shoe, and study every curve of my brow, as if life and death were in its rise or fall! (He turns away.) Henri, come here! (He approaches.) Come! you are a good-looking man enough, after all! Ah! why couldn't my poor father have forbidden me to marry you! He might have known I should have been sure in that case to have fallen desperately in love with you, Henri!
Count.—By Heaven, I will bear this trifling no longer! I will write instantly and propose to the peasant girl, Carille—she will be proud to be called La Contesse de Beaumont.
Vic.—Will you do so? Oh, you darling cousin! I shall love you dearly when you are once married! And, cousin, I don't believe she'll live till doomsday, do you? Don't forget that I'm to be your second—on doomsday morning, cousin. (Exit Count in a rage.) I am so happy—and Carille will be so happy too—I am sure she will! I know if I were a village girl I should be dying to be a lady—for now I am a lady I am dying to be a village girl—heigh-ho. (Exit.)