Pasquinot.  Are you going to tell Percinet?

Sylvette.  Oh, no.  Men are so stupid!

Bergamin.  Very sensible.  But I had an idea—­ [Taking out his watch] Now we must see about the contract. [Offering his hand to Sylvette] We are still good friends?

Sylvette.  Of course!

Bergamin. [Turning about once more before he goes out] You don’t blame me, do you?

Sylvette. [Sweetly] Not in the least! [Bergamin and Pasquinot go out.  As they leave, Sylvette burst into a rage.] How I hate that Monsieur Bergamin!

[Enter Percinet.]

Percinet.  Still here?  Ah, I see; you did not want to leave this sacred spot—­

Sylvette. [Sitting on the bench to the left] Outrageous!

Percinet.  There is where you saw me, like Amadis, put to flight thirty of the ruffians!

Sylvette.  No:  ten!

Percinet. [Going to her] Dearest, what is the matter?  Are you troubled?  Your eyes are not so bright as they were.  I know!  This marvelous place makes you sad sometimes.  Are you sad because our balcony—­our Verona balcony—­is destroyed?

Sylvette. [Impatiently] Oh, dear!

Percinet.  But does not the wall still exist in our memories?  That wall which cradled our love—­

Sylvette. [Aside:] Will he never end!

Percinet.  You remember not long ago, you said our story should be put into a poem?

Sylvette.  Yes?

Percinet.  Well, I have occasionally written verses.

Sylvette.  Are you going to write our story?

Percinet.  Listen to this; I thought it out when I was walking. 
“The Fathers who are Mortal Enemies.”  First canto—­

Sylvette.  Oh!

Percinet. [Ready to declaim] Er—­

Sylvette.  Oh!

Percinet.  What is the matter?

Sylvette.  I imagine I am too happy—­I’m nervous—­I don’t feel well. [She bursts into tears.] I’ll be well in a moment.  Let me be! [She turns her back and hides her face in a handkerchief.]

Percinet. [Surprised] I’ll leave you for a moment. [Aside] On a day like this, it’s only too natural—­ [He goes to the right, sees the bill on the table, takes a pencil from his pocket, and sits down.] I’ll just jot down those lines. [He picks up the bill, and starts to write; notices the writing and reads aloud] “I, Straforel, having pretended to be killed by a sword-thrust from a foolish young blade, hereby render account for torn clothes and wounded pride:  forty francs.” [Smiling] What is it? [He continues reading to himself, and his smile dies away.]

Sylvette. [Wiping her eyes] He would fall from the clouds if he knew!  I must be careful!