Marquis. No, sir, I do not.
Macaire. My lord, I am a poor man.
Marquis. Well, sir? and what of that?
Macaire. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.
Marquis. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.
Macaire. My lord, you are rich.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if I may so express myself, are you. Each has the father’s heart, and there we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we are on a par. But, my lord—and here we come to the inequality, and what I consider the unfairness of the thing—you have thirty thousand francs, and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me? not a rap, my lord! My lord, put yourself in my position: consider what must be my feelings, my desires; and—hey?
Marquis. I fail to grasp . . .
Macaire (with irritation). My dear man, there is the door of the house; here am I; there (touching, Marquis on the breast) are thirty thousand francs. Well, now?