NAPOLEON. Dare!

LADY. Yes, dare. Who are you that you should presume to speak to
me in that coarse way? Oh, the vile, vulgar Corsican adventurer
comes out in you very easily.

NAPOLEON (beside himself). You she devil! (Savagely.) Once more,
and only once, will you give me those papers or shall I tear them
from you--by force?

LADY (letting her hands fall ). Tear them from me--by force! (As
he glares at her like a tiger about to spring, she crosses her
arms on her breast in the attitude of a martyr. The gesture and
pose instantly awaken his theatrical instinct: he forgets his
rage in the desire to show her that in acting, too, she has met
her match. He keeps her a moment in suspense; then suddenly
clears up his countenance; puts his hands behind him with
provoking coolness; looks at her up and down a couple of times;
takes a pinch of snuff; wipes his fingers carefully and puts up
his handkerchief, her heroic pose becoming more and more
ridiculous all the time.)

NAPOLEON (at last). Well?

LADY (disconcerted, but with her arms still crossed devotedly).
Well: what are you going to do?

NAPOLEON. Spoil your attitude.