MME. B. No: we’re not so well off as people think. There’s Gabrielle to be provided for. There will be next to nothing left for Jacques. LUCIE. But he might work. MME. B. He has not been brought up to that. LUCIE. That was a mistake. MME. B. The professions are overcrowded. Would you have him go into an office and get 200 francs a month? They wouldn’t be able to keep a servant. LUCIE. He could earn more than that. MME. B. If he got 500—could he keep up his position? Could he remain in his present set? It would be a come-down for him; a come-down he would owe to his wife; and sooner or later he would reproach her for it. And think of their children! They would have just enough to send their son to a board school, and make their daughter a post office clerk. And even then they would have to pinch and screw to provide for her until she got in. LUCIE. It’s true. MME. B. You see that I’m right. I can’t say I’m proud of having to say such things—of belonging to a society that forces one to do such things. But we’re not in a land of romance. We live among vain, selfish, hard-headed people. LUCIE. You despise them, and yet you sacrifice everything to their opinion. MME. B. Yes: because everything depends upon their opinion. Social position depends upon it. One must be a very exceptional person to be able to defy public opinion. And Jacques is not exceptional. LUCIE. That’s nothing to be proud of. If he was exceptional, I mean if he was different to all these people about, he would find his love would prevent him from troubling about the sneers of worthless idlers. MME. B. His love! Love goes: poverty stays: it is a proverb. Beauty passes: want remains. LUCIE. But you, madame, yourself—you and your husband are a proof that one can marry poor and make a fortune. Your story is well known. Your husband began in an office, then he started his own business; and if riches make happiness, you are happy now—you and he—aren’t you?