Gaspar. Thou art moved, Melnotte; think not of me; I would
go through fire and water to serve thee; but,--a blow!
It is not the bruise that galls,--it is the blush, Melnotte.

Mel. Say, what message?--How insulted!--Wherefore?--What the offence?

Gaspar. Did you not write to Pauline Deschappelles, the daughter
of the rich merchant?

Mel. Well?

Gaspar. And are you not a peasant--a gardener's son?--
that was the offence. Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a French
citizen, blows! [Exit.

Widow. Now you are cured, Claude!

Mel. tearing the letter. So do I scatter her image to the winds--
I will stop her in the open streets--I will insult her--I will beat
her menial ruffians--I will--[Turns suddenly to Widow.] Mother,
am I humpbacked--deformed--hideous? Widow. You!

Mel. A coward--a thief--a liar?

Widow. You!

Mel. Or a dull fool--a vain, drivelling, brainless idiot?
Widow. No, no. Mel. What am I then--worse than all these?
Why, I am a peasant! What has a peasant to do with love?
Vain revolutions, why lavish your cruelty on the great? Oh that we--