FRO. What have I come to do? Why! what I do everywhere else, busy myself about other people's affairs, make myself useful to the community in general, and profit as much as I possibly can by the small talent I possess. Must we not live by our wits in this world? and what other resources have people like me but intrigue and cunning? LA FL. Have you, then, any business with the master of this house? FRO. Yes. I am transacting for him a certain small matter for which he is pretty sure to give me a reward. LA FL. He give you a reward! Ah! ah! Upon my word, you will be 'cute if you ever get one, and I warn you that ready money is very scarce hereabouts. FRO. That may be, but there are certain services which wonderfully touch our feelings. LA FL. Your humble servant; but as yet you don't know Harpagon. Harpagon is the human being of all human beings the least humane, the mortal of all mortals the hardest and closest. There is no service great enough to induce him to open his purse. If, indeed, you want praise, esteem, kindness, and friendship, you are welcome to any amount; but money, that's a different affair. There is nothing more dry, more barren, than his favour and his good grace, and "_give_" is a word for which he has such a strong dislike that he never says _I give_, but _I lend, you a good morning_. FRO. That's all very well; but I know the art of fleecing men. I have a secret of touching their affections by flattering their hearts, and of finding out their weak points. LA FL. All useless here. I defy you to soften, as far as money is concerned, the man we are speaking of. He is a Turk on that point, of a Turkishness to drive anyone to despair, and we might starve in his presence and never a peg would he stir. In short, he loves money better than reputation, honour, and virtue, and the mere sight of anyone making demands upon his purse sends him into convulsions; it is like striking him in a vital place, it is piercing him to the heart, it is like tearing out his very bowels! And if ... But here he comes again; I leave you. SCENE VI.--HARPAGON, FROSINE. HAR. (_aside_). All is as it should be. (_To_ FROSINE) Well, what is it, Frosine? FRO. Bless me, how well you look! You are the very picture of health. HAR. Who? I? FRO. Never have I seen you looking more rosy, more hearty. HAR. Are you in earnest? FRO. Why! you have never been so young in your life; and I know many a man of twenty-five who looks much older than you do. HAR. And yet, Frosine, I have passed threescore. FRO. Threescore! Well, and what then? You don't mean to make a trouble of that, do you? It's the very flower of manhood, the threshold of the prime of life. HAR. True; but twenty years less would do me no harm, I think. FRO. Nonsense! You've no need of that, and you are of a build to last out a hundred. HAR. Do you really think so?