PERCINET. Father, I love this old corner! I adore this bench over
which the vines of the wall have so gracefully draped themselves.
See, what graceful arabesques these festoons make! The air is
purer here.

BERGAMIN. By the side of this wall?

PERCINET. I love it!

BERGAMIN. I see nothing lovable about it!

SYLVETTE. [Aside] He can't see why!

PERCINET. But it is charming, all covered with ivy and creeper.
See here, what honeysuckle! This hundred-year-old wall, with its
clinging vines, its constellations of flowers, looking through the
crannies, kissed by the summer sun, makes the bench a throne fit
for kings!

BERGAMIN. Nonsense, you hare-brained youth! Do you mean to tell
me that this wall has eyes?

PERCINET. Ah, what eyes! [Turns toward the wall.] Of soft azure,
yet dazzlingly blue; let but a tear come to dim your brightness,
or a single kiss--

BERGAMIN. But the wall hasn't eyes, you idiot!

PERCINET. See this vine, though! [He plucks part of the vine from
the wall and graciously presents it to his father.]