Alceste. Ah! you traitress! mine is a strange infatuation for you; those tender expressions are, no doubt, meant only to deceive me. But it matters little, I must submit to my fate; my very soul is wrapt up in you; I will see to the bitter end how your heart will act towards me, and whether it will be black enough to deceive me.

Célimène. No, you do not love me as you ought to love.

Alceste. Indeed! Nothing is to be compared to my exceeding love; and, in its eagerness to show itself to the whole world, it goes even so far as to form wishes against you. Yes, I could wish that no one thought you handsome, that you were reduced to a miserable existence; that Heaven, at your birth, had bestowed upon you nothing; that you had no rank, no nobility, no wealth, so that I might openly proffer my heart, and thus make amends to you for the injustice of such a lot; and that, this very day, I might have the joy and the glory of seeing you owe everything to my love.

Célimène. This is wishing me well in a strange way! Heaven grant that you may never have occasion … But here comes Monsieur Dubois curiously decked out.

Scene IV.—Célimène, Alceste, Dubois.

Alceste. What means this strange attire, and that frightened look? What ails you

Dubois. Sir …

Alceste. Well?

Dubois. The most mysterious event.

Alceste. What is it?

Dubois. Our affairs are turning out badly, Sir.

Alceste. What?

Dubois. Shall I speak out?

Alceste. Yes, do, and quickly.

Dubois. Is there no one there?

Alceste. Curse your trifling! Will you speak?

Dubois. Sir, we must beat a retreat.

Alceste. What do you mean?

Dubois. We must steal away from this quietly.

Alceste. And why?

Dubois. I tell you that we must leave this place.

Alceste. The reason?

Dubois. You must go, Sir, without staying to take leave.

Alceste. But what is the meaning of this strain?