Lucas. Pray, Sir, put it on.

Sganarelle (aside). What a deal of ceremony these people use. (He puts his hat on).

Valère. You must not think it strange, Sir, that we have addressed ourselves to you. Clever people are always much sought after, and we have been informed of your capacity.

Sganarelle. It is true, gentlemen, that I am the best hand in the world at making faggots.

Valère. Oh! Sir …

Sganarelle. I spare no pains, and make them in a fashion that leaves nothing to be desired.

Valère. That is not the question we have come about, Sir.

Sganarelle. But I charge a hundred and ten sous the hundred.

Valère. Let us not speak about that, if you please.

Sganarelle. I pledge you my word that I could not sell them for less.

Valère. We know what is what, Sir.

Sganarelle. If you know what is what, you know that I charge that price.

Valère. This is a joke, Sir, but …

Sganarelle. It is no joke at all, I cannot bate a farthing.

Valère. Let us talk differently, please.

Sganarelle. You may find some elsewhere for less; there be faggots and faggots; but for those which I make …

Valère. Let us change the conversation, pray, Sir.

Sganarelle. I take my oath that you shall not have them for less, not a fraction.

Valère. Fie! Fie!

Sganarelle. No, upon my word, you shall have to pay that price. I am speaking frankly, and I am not the man to overcharge.

Valère. Ought a gentleman like you, Sir, to amuse himself with those clumsy pretences, to lower himself to talk thus? Ought so learned a man, such a famous physician as you are, wish to disguise himself in the eyes of the world and keep buried his great talents?

Sganarelle (aside). He is mad.

Valère. Pray, Sir, do not dissemble with us.

Sganarelle. What do you mean?

Lucas. All this beating about the bush is useless. We know what we know.

Sganarelle. What do you know? What do you want with me? For whom do you take me?

Valère. For what you are, a great physician.