POTIN _enters cautiously, with various things hidden under his
clothes, giving him a grotesque appearance_.
POTIN.
Now, O Fate, is your chance to protect a patriot! If I can only get
away,--I shall escape perjury in Court, and tongue-lashing from my
wife!--Now to run!--To run for Vendee! Better the awful thunder of
masculine war than the piercing tenderness of a woman's tongue!
[_Starting to run of, he begins to sing--to the tune of the
Marseillaise chorus:_]
To leave--to leave my wife!--
NANETTE.
[_Rushing in and stopping him_.]
Hold, Citizen Potin!
POTIN.
[_Wilting_.]
Oh, Republic, I am lost!
NANETTE.
Dodolphe--you're up to mischief! Speak out--what's up?
POTIN.
Patience, gentle lamb!
NANETTE.
Don't lamb me, sir!
[_Twisting him round_.]
What's this mean?
[_Tapping him_.]
Porpoise!
[_Pulling breeches from under his coat_.]
Culottes!
[_Pulling cap from his breast_.]
Ye gods, what's this?
[_Pulling hose from his pockets_.]
By heaven! A woman's hose!
[_Shaking hose in his face_.]
What does this mean?
POTIN.
Nothing, precious love! This is my uniform;--I have recruited for
Vendee.
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