The Indian Woman (L'Indienne)

No, he is dead.

Fie, that is dishonest.

You now feel the full extent of my misfortune. I must sacrifice myself.

For your husband! Hey! You could not stand him.

That is not a reason. Did your Master love his wife?

But he always says so.

Strictly speaking, I know well that I could dispense with the ceremony; but I would be dishonored forever; isolated, I would not find a way to marry again. Not one man would want to look at me. Not one Slave would deign to serve me. I might as well finish it right away.

But what an execrable custom yours is, and what barbarian could have invented it?

I know nothing of it; all these old customs, whose origin is unknown, are always respected, however pernicious they may be. Such is the people.

That is a foolish people. As for me, I am only a Slave, that is to say, one of those men you believe to be as vile as the metal that pays for them; but, such as you see me, I would not burn the tip of my finger for the favorite Sultana of the Great Mogul.

How! Are you not Indian, and of the Sect of Brahma or Vishnu?

I would be very sorry for it, I fear burning too much;