Vintimille. What?
La Contat. I do not know, I couldn't tell you exactly why I am fighting: but I felt it not long ago. I was ready to cut your throat.
Vintimille [laughing]. You always liked to exaggerate.
La Contat. I am not joking now.
Vintimille. But, Contat, you are a woman of sense; you don't do things without a reason?
La Contat. I have a reason, but I can't explain it now. A few moments ago it was so powerful, so clear to me. The feelings of those people thrill me, like the roll of thunder. Now that I am separated from them, I don't know, I don't know what—
Vintimille. You were mad. Confess it.
La Contat. No, no: I am sure they are right.
Vintimille. Right to rebel against the King, kill people, and die for a nothing?
La Contat. They are not dying for nothing.
Vintimille. No, of course not: for Monsieur d'Orleans' écus!
La Contat. My dear, you're the same as ever: you always minimize one's motives.
Vintimille. Money is not a small motive to vagabonds who have none. Can you give me a better motive?
La Contat. Liberty.
Vintimille. What is that?
La Contat. I don't like your ironical smile. When you look at me that way, I don't know what to say. Even if I did, I shouldn't say it. It would be useless:
