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G U I L L A U M E.
She is old enough for that.
E L E O N O R E.
She speaks very softly.
G U I L L A U M E.
Yes, like a dog-keeper.
E L E O N O R E.
Is it she who takes care of your hunting dogs?
G U I L L A U M E.
Goodness, our hunting dogs!
E L E O N O R E.
Does your Master have many?
G U I L L A U M E.
Yes, in the past.
E L E O N O R E.
And why does he have none left?
G U I L L A U M E.
Ah, ah! why? Because he was too spendthrift, too generous: whenever he guessed in someone's eyes what would give them pleasure, he gave it to them. One day, one day, the Regiment he had was fighting; there were twenty-two officers' horses killed, not counting his own; the next day he replaced them all, and horses are more expensive than men.
E L E O N O R E.
But what he did there is very good.
G U I L L A U M E.
Ah! if it were only that, it would not be so blameworthy.
E L E O N O R E.
Is there something, then, that does him no honor?
(Clitie, meanwhile, goes to look at that table, those bouquets, lifts the curtain, looks at her portrait.)
G U I L L A U M E.
By my faith, not really: but a servant must never speak ill of his Master.
E L E O N O R E.
Is it something very shameful, then?
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