The scene is Rosette's bed. A sunbeam streams through the curtains: it is ten o'clock. Rosette has one arm under my neck and lies perfectly still for fear of waking me. From time to time she rises a little on her elbow and leans over my face, holding her breath. I see all this through my eyelashes, for I have been awake an hour. Rosette's night-dress has a neck ruffle of Malines lace which is all torn: it has been a stormy night; her hair protrudes in disorder from under her little cap. She is as pretty as a woman can be, when one doesn't love her and is lying in bed with her. ROSETTE (_seeing that I am awake)._ Oh! sleepyhead! I (_yawning_). Ah-h-h! ROSETTE. Don't yawn like that or I won't kiss you for a week. I. Oh! ROSETTE. It seems, monsieur, that you don't care much whether I kiss you or not. I. Yes, I do. ROSETTE. How indifferently you say it!--All right; you can depend upon it that I won't touch you with the end of my lips for a week to come.--To-day is Tuesday: not till next Tuesday. I. Nonsense! ROSETTE. What's that? nonsense? I. Yes, nonsense! you'll kiss me before night, or I shall die. ROSETTE. You die! What a silly fellow!--I have spoiled you, monsieur. I. I shall live.--I am not silly and you have not spoiled me--quite the contrary. In the first place I demand the instant suppression of _monsieur;_ I know you well enough for you to call me by my name and speak in the language of intimates. ROSETTE. I have spoiled you, D'Albert. I. Very good.--Now put your mouth over here. ROSETTE. No, next Tuesday. I. Well, well! has it come to this, that we exchange caresses, calendar in hand? We are both a little too young for that.--Come, your mouth, my child, or I shall get a crick in my neck. ROSETTE. No. I. Ah! you want me to force you, mignonne; _pardieu_! then I will force you. The thing is feasible, although perhaps it has never been done. ROSETTE. Impertinent! I. Notice, my lovely one, that I was courteous enough to say _perhaps;_ that was very good of me.--But we are getting away from the subject. Put down your head. Hoity-toity! what is all this, my favorite sultana? and what means the sulky expression on your face? It is a pleasure to kiss a smile and not a pout. ROSETTE. (_stooping to kiss me)._ How do you expect me to laugh? you say such harsh things to me! I. My purpose is to say very tender things to you. Why should I say harsh things? ROSETTE. I don't know; but you do say them. I. You mistake meaningless jests for harshness. ROSETTE.