M. S I M O N.

Ah! Heaven! Ah! my wig.... Ah! My Lord!
(To his daughter.) Run quickly...

H I S W I F E.

I do not want her to go out with all those people: it is a bad lot. Stay here.

M. S I M O N.

Go there yourself then.

H I S W I F E.

I am going.

M. S I M O N.

No, I am running there. Ah! here he is! Ah! I had told you so! Ah! Heaven! Where should I put myself!

S C E N E V I I.

THE LORD, M. SIMON, HIS WIFE, FANCHETTE.

My Lord enters with his retinue; a runner, dog handlers, with horns slung over their shoulders, whips in hand.

THE LORD.

What dogs have you there?

A DOG HANDLER.

The Bassets.

M. SIMON.

My Lord, I am... aside. He does not see me.

THE DOG HANDLER.

My comrade has brought Greyhounds.

THE LORD, noticing Fanchette.

That is a pretty girl!

FANCHETTE.

My mother he is looking at us.

Madame SIMON.

Stay there. (She adjusts her daughter's neckerchief.)