PURPLE

SIDOINE CLOTILDE MARCELLE

FIRST SCENE SIDOINE—CLOTILDE

Clotilde—A lover? No. I am too fond of my freedom. A lover? Suspicions, jealousy, torment. A lover? No, I want to be able to go and come in life, according to my own wishes. A lover? “What were you doing yesterday, my dear, at the corner of the rue de la Paix?” “I was waiting.” “What?” “Waiting for a carriage.” “Ah!” And he doesn’t believe you. His whole person says: “It’s very strange.” A lover! No. I’ve enough as it is with a husband. My husband is a debonair guardian who fears only scandal. Knowing that I am well-bred, he watches over me only from afar, and then the infatuation characteristic of husbands prevents him, even if he should surprise me in a suspicious conversation, from believing his eyes. But a lover?

Sidoine—Your husband is right. To suspect his wife is to insult her, and a gallant man is above insulting his wife.

Clotilde—If his wife is honest, that’s quite as it should be. If she is not, his suspicions become legitimate, even before the beginning of the proof.

Sidoine—Suspicions are never legitimate.

Clotilde—Don’t talk nonsense. Suspicions are always legitimate. But one has them or hasn’t; it depends upon temperament. I don’t know whether my husband has ever suspected me; he has never shown it. You know as well as I, nevertheless,—no, not quite so well, but anyway you know—that I had a lover, since you were not only his friend but our confidant. Confess, then, that all your pretty phrases are nothing but pretty phrases.

Sidoine—Not at all. When one loves, when one believes oneself loved, suspicions are infamous. I’ll say more—they’re stupid. Life is an act of confidence. To deceive is to degrade oneself. Well, can one ever suppose that the beloved is a degraded creature?

Clotilde—For my part, I know that lovers are suspicious, and nothing unnerves me more. Your friend tortured me for three years. I’ve had enough. The trouble he gave me did not make up for the pleasures that he lavished so prodigally upon me. Another woman, perhaps, would have been happy with him. I wasn’t. One experiment suffices. I don’t say that I’ll never yield to a whim. Oh! Lord, no! Caprices! I seek them, and I’d bless heaven, I’d dedicate a novena to Notre-Dame des Victories, if that plant should sprout in my head. Alas! It’s years since I’ve felt anything; my flesh doesn’t rise to anything or anybody. I’m desolate. As to my heart, let’s not mention it. I’ve brought it to reason.

Sidoine—You’re a delightful little egotist. That isn’t why I love you, but I love you just the same.

Clotilde—You’ve told me so often enough. Love me. Who’s stopping you?

Sidoine—But it takes two to love.

Clotilde—Much credit you deserve, then! Why, I loved your friend for six months before he so much as deigned to cast an eye upon me.

Sidoine—My merit, if there is any, is far greater, for it’s a year, day for day, that I’ve been paying court to you.

Clotilde—Your merit would be double, indeed, if you really loved me.

Sidoine—What? You don’t even credit my sincerity?

Clotilde—One believes only in the sincerity of those whom one loves, and I don’t love you.

Sidoine—There’s a fine fix for me!

Clotilde—What’s the matter? You’ve turned pale?

Sidoine—That thrust was rather direct. Farewell.

Clotilde—Sidoine, don’t leave with such an evil impression.

Sidoine—Ah! Your eyes are no longer cruel, thanks! I may remain a little while, then?

Clotilde—Yes, but not seated.

Sidoine—I’ll remain standing then.

Clotilde—Not standing. On your knees.

Sidoine—Yes, I ask your pardon for loving you too much.

Clotilde—Very well, I pardon you, and here’s my hand to kiss, even. That makes it complete, doesn’t it?

Sidoine—It’s so nice kneeling before you.

Clotilde—How silly is a man in love. It’s really touching.

Sidoine—She’s actually weeping. Ah! You love me, Clotilde!

Clotilde—Yes.