La Contat. Oh, oh, don't enroll me so quickly! I look on, I applaud, and I find the piece interesting, but I'm not playing this evening.
Hoche. So you think it's merely interesting? You think it is play? Look at this poor devil, his bones sticking out of his blouse, and this woman nursing her child. Is it amusing to see them starve? You think it a good comedy to see these people, without bread, without a future, thinking only of humanity, and of eternal justice? Don't you think it's at least as serious as a Corneille tragedy?
La Contat. That, too, is only a play.
Hoche. Nothing is play. Everything is serious. Cinna and Nicomède exist, just as I do.
La Contat. You are strange! Actors and authors construct make-believe things, which you accept as gospel!
Hoche. You're mistaken, it isn't make-believe for you: you don't know yourself.
La Contat. You make me laugh! Do you know me?
Hoche. I've seen you on the stage.
La Contat. And do you imagine I feel what I act?
Hoche. You can't deny it: your instinct makes you feel. A power is never an illusion; it carries you along. I know better than you what it does to you.
La Contat. What?
Hoche. What is strong goes with what is strong. You will be one of us.
La Contat. I don't think so.
Hoche. What difference? There are only two
