SYLVETTE. Yes?

PERCINET. Well, I have occasionally written verses.

SYLVETTE. Are you going to write our story?

PERCINET. Listen to this; I thought it out when I was walking.
"The Fathers who are Mortal Enemies." First canto--

SYLVETTE. Oh!

PERCINET. [Ready to declaim] Er--

SYLVETTE. Oh!

PERCINET. What is the matter?

SYLVETTE. I imagine I am too happy--I'm nervous--I don't feel
well. [She bursts into tears.] I'll be well in a moment. Let me
be! [She turns her back and hides her face in a handkerchief.]

PERCINET. [Surprised] I'll leave you for a moment. [Aside]
On a day like this, it's only too natural-- [He goes to the right,
sees the bill on the table, takes a pencil from his pocket, and
sits down.] I'll just jot down those lines. [He picks up the
bill, and starts to write; notices the writing and reads aloud]
"I, Straforel, having pretended to be killed by a sword-thrust from
a foolish young blade, hereby render account for torn clothes and
wounded pride: forty francs." [Smiling] What is it? [He
continues reading to himself, and his smile dies away.]