To betray me, his betrothed,
Who belong to him!
I, who have only him to think of
And worry about!
Ah! whether he is away or here,
What grief!
Present, he scorns my joy;
Absent, my tears.
FLEUR-DE-LYS.
Phœbus, the scarf that I worked for you—
What have you done with it? I don't see it.
PHŒBUS (troubled).
The scarf? I don't know!
[Aside.] Good God! unlucky chance!
FLEUR-DE-LYS.
You forgot it?
[Aside.]To whom has he given it?
And for whom am I deserted?
MADAME ALOISE (coming up to them and trying to reconcile them).
Heavens! get married! Then you can quarrel.
PHŒBUS (to Fleur-de-lys).