MAR. Ah! Frosine, how strange I feel, and how I dread this interview!
FRO. Why should you? What can you possibly dread?
MAR. Alas! can you ask me? Can you not understand the alarms of a
person about to see the instrument of torture to which she is to be
tied.
FRO. I see very well that to die agreeably, Harpagon is not the
torture you would embrace; and I can judge by your looks that the fair
young man you spoke of to me is still in your thoughts.
MAR. Yes, Frosine; it is a thing I do not wish to deny. The respectful
visits he has paid at our house have left, I confess, a great
impression on my heart.
FRO. But do you know who he is?
MAR. No, I do not. All I know is that he is made to be loved; that if
things were left to my choice, I would much rather marry him than any
other, and that he adds not a little to the horrible dread that I have
of the husband they want to force upon me.
FRO. Oh yes! All those dandies are very pleasant, and can talk
agreeably enough, but most of them are as poor as church mice; and it
is much better for you to marry an old husband, who gives you plenty
of money. I fully acknowledge that the senses somewhat clash with the
end I propose, and that there are certain little inconveniences to be
endured with such a husband; but all that won't last; and his death,
believe me, will soon put you in a position to take a more pleasant
husband, who will make amends for all.
MAR. Oh, Frosine! What a strange state of things that, in order to be
happy, we must look forward to the death of another. Yet death will
not fall in with all the projects we make.
FRO. You are joking. You marry him with the express understanding that
he will soon leave you a widow; it must be one of the articles of the
marriage contract. It would be very wrong in him not to die before
three months are over. Here he is himself.
MAR. Ah! dear Frosine, what a face!