he
table, and lifts himself on to it, sitting with his arms akimbo and his
legs wide apart.) Come: I am a true Corsican in my love for stories.
But I could tell them better than you if I set my mind to it. Next time
you are asked why a letter compromising a wife should not be sent to
her husband, answer simply that the husband would not read it. Do you
suppose, little innocent, that a man wants to be compelled by public
opinion to make a scene, to fight a duel, to break up his household, to
injure his career by a scandal, when he can avoid it all by taking care
not to know?

LADY (revolted). Suppose that packet contained a letter about your own
wife?

NAPOLEON (offended, coming off the table). You are impertinent, madame.

LADY (humbly). I beg your above suspicion.

NAPOLEON (with a deliberate assumption of superiority). You have
committed an indiscretion. I pardon you. In future, do not permit
yourself to introduce real persons in your romances.

LADY (politely ignoring a speech which is to her only a breach of good
manners, and rising to move towards the table). General: there really
is a woman's letter there. (Pointing to the packet.) Give it to me.

NAPOLEON (with brute conciseness, moving so as to prevent her getting
too near the letters). Why?

LADY. She is an old friend: we were at school together. She has written
to me imploring me to prevent the letter falling into your hands.

NAPOLEON. Why has it been sent to me?

LADY. Because it compromises the director Barras.

NAPOLEON (frowning, evidently startled). Barras! (Haughtily.) Take
care, madame. The director Barras is my attached personal friend.

LADY (nodding placidly). Yes. You became friends through your wife.

NAPOLEON. Again! Have I not forbidden you to speak of my wife? (She
keeps looking curiously at him, taking no account of the rebuke. More
and more irritated, he drops his haughty manner, of which he is himself
somewhat impatient, and says suspiciously, lowering his voice) Who is
this woman with whom you sympathize so deeply?

LADY. Oh, General! How could I tell you that?

NAPOLEON (ill-humoredly, beginning to walk about again in angry
perplexity). Ay, ay: stand by one another. You are all the same, you
women.

LADY (indignantly). We are not all the same, any more than you are. Do
you think that if _I_ loved another man, I should pretend to go on
loving my husband, or be afraid to tell him or all the world? But this
woman is not mad