A ring? [_Laughs._] No, it's not a lie. By the way, child, when speaking of Barons, you must say, "he does not tell the truth," and not, "he lies."
It's just the same. It's nice to be wealthy, Father; you can do what you want, then.
[_With enthusiasm_]: Everything you want. Everything, my child. Ah! Our fate is being decided to-day. Pray our clement God, Consuelo. The Baron is hanging on a thread.
[_Making the gesture with his fingers_]: On a very thin, silk thread. I am almost sure that he will make his proposal to-day. [_Laughs._] Winter roses, and the web of a spider amongst the roses, in order that my dear little fly.... He is such a spider.
[_Indifferently_]: Yes, a terrible spider. Father, oughtn't I to let him kiss my hand yet?
By no means. You don't know yet, darling, what these men are.
Alfred! Your Alfred is a cub, and he mustn't dare. But with men of that sort, you must be extremely careful, my child. To-day he would kiss your little finger, to-morrow your hand, and after to-morrow you would be on his lap.
Foui! Father, what are you talking about? You should be ashamed!
Don't you dare! I don't want to hear such dirty things. I shall give the Baron such a slap! A better one than HE--let him only try.
[_With a deprecating gesture_]: All men are like that, child.
It isn't true. Alfred is not. Ah! But where is HE? He said he'd run, and he hasn't come back.
The buffet here is closed, and he has to get the sandwiches somewhere else. Consuelo, as your father, I want to warn you about HE. Don't trust him. He knows something. [_Twirls his finger close to his forehead._] His game is not fair.
You say it about everybody. I know HE; he is such a nice man, and he loves me so much.
Father, you make me sick with your advice. Ah! HE, thank you.
[_HE, breathing somewhat heavily, enters and gives her the sandwiches._]
A hot one.... But you were running, HE? I am so grateful. [_Eats._] HE, do you love me?
[_Eating_]: And when I leave, will you find another queen?
[_Making a ceremonious bow_]: I shall follow after you, my incomparable one. I shall carry the train of your dress and wipe away my tears with it. [_Pretends to cry._]
Idiot! [_Laughs._] How sorry I am, HE, that those wonderful times have passed, when, in the court of the Counts Mancini, there were scores of motley fools who were given gold and kicks.... Now, Mancini is compelled to go to this dirty circus in order to see a good fool; and still, whose fool is he? Mine? No. He belongs to everybody who pays a franc. We shall very soon be unable to breathe because of Democracy. Democracy, too, needs fools! Think of it, HE; what an unexampled impertinence.