Pasquinot.  Sings well, but works very slowly!  By to-morrow the wall will be at least two feet high!

Bergamin.  I’m impatient to see it higher!

Pasquinot.  What is that you say, Monsieur?

Bergamin.  I was not addressing you. [A pause.] What do you do evenings after dinner?

Pasquinot.  Nothing—­and you?

Bergamin.  Nothing. [Another pause.  They bow and walk about again.]

Pasquinot. [Stopping] Any news from your son?

Bergamin.  No—­he is still away.

Pasquinot.  He will return soon:  his money will surely give out.

Bergamin.  Thank you. [They bow again, and walk.]

Pasquinot.  Now that the wall is being built again, Monsieur, I should be glad to see you from time to time.

Bergamin.  Thank you.  Perhaps I shall come. [They bow.]

Pasquinot.  Tell me, now, will you play piquet?

Bergamin.  I beg your pardon—­I don’t know—­

Pasquinot.  I invite you!

Bergamin.  To tell the truth, I prefer besigue—­

Pasquinot.  Then come at once.

Bergamin. [Following Pasquinot, who goes out] You owe me ten sous from the last time. [Turning round] Work hard, mason!

The mason.  Tra la la la la!

Pasquinot.  Beautiful voice! [They disappear.]

[When they are gone, the mason turns round, and takes off his hat:  he is Straforel.]

Straforel.  Now for the work of reconstruction! [He sits down on the row or two of bricks.] The young man is still off on his quest for adventure and romance.  Life must be giving him a splendid bath of disillusion.  I can see him as he returns, his tail between his legs.  Now I am working on Sylvette—­she, too, will soon be cured. [He takes a letter from his pocket and puts it in the hollow of a tree-trunk.  Sylvette appears at the back.] It’s she!  Now to work!

Sylvette. [Looking anxiously about] Not a soul. [She lays her muslin scarf on the bench to the left.] Will the letter be there to-day as usual? [She goes toward the tree.] Every day some gallant has left one for me. [She thrusts her hand into the hollow.] Ah, here is my mail! [She takes the letter, opens it and reads.] “Sylvette, heart of marble, this is the last letter you will find in this tree.  Why have you not answered me?” Ah, what style!  “The love that gnaws at my vitals!” Monsieur Percinet has gone forth into the great world, and he is right.  I shall do as he has done.  How can I possibly stay here and die of ennui?  Now let him come, I am ready to fly with him!  I almost love him already!

Straforel. [Rising from his work, and in a voice of thunder] Here am I!