Marquis—­I answered strongly enough, I can tell you.

Baroness—­I don’t doubt it.

Marquis—­But you are right in wanting to marry again.

Baroness—­Who says I want to?

Marquis—­Ah! you don’t treat me as a friend.  I deserve your confidence all the more for understanding you as if you had given it.  The aid of a sorcerer is not to be despised, Baroness.

Baroness [sitting down by the table]—­Prove your sorcery.

Marquis [sitting down opposite]—­Willingly!  Give me your hand.

Baroness [removing her glove]—­You’ll give it back again.

Marquis—­And help you dispose of it, which is more. [Examining her hand.] You are beautiful, rich, and a widow.

Baroness—­I could believe myself at Mademoiselle Lenormand’s!

Marquis—­While it is so easy, not to say tempting, for you to lead a brilliant, frivolous life, you have chosen a role almost austere with its irreproachable morals.

Baroness—­If it was a role, you’ll admit that it was much like a penitence.

Marquis—­Not for you.

Baroness—­What do you know about it?

Marquis—­I read it in your hand.  I even see that the contrary would cost you more, for nature has gifted your heart with unalterable calmness.

Baroness [drawing away her hand]—­Say at once that I’m a monster.

Marquis—­Time enough!  The credulous think you a saint; the skeptics say you desire power; I, Guy Francois Condorier, Marquis d’Auberive, think you a clever little German, trying to build a throne for yourself in the Faubourg Saint-Germain.  You have conquered the men, but the women resist you:  your reputation offends them; and for want of a better weapon they use this miserable rumor I’ve just repeated.  In short, your flag’s inadequate and you’re looking for a larger one.  Henry IV. said that Paris was worth a mass.  You think so too.

Baroness—­They say sleep-walkers shouldn’t be contradicted.  However, do let me say that if I really wanted a husband—­with my money and my social position, I might already have found twenty.

Marquis—­Twenty, yes; but not one.  You forget this little devil of a rumor.

Baroness [rising]—­Only fools believe that.

Marquis [rising]—­There’s the hic.  It’s only very clever men, too clever, who court you, and you want a fool.

Baroness—­Why?

Marquis—­Because you don’t want a master.  You want a husband whom you can keep in your parlor, like a family portrait, nothing more.

Baroness—­Have you finished, dear diviner?  What you have just said lacks common-sense, but you are amusing, and I can refuse you nothing.

Marquis—­Marechal shall have the oration?