Célimène:
What angel sent you to make us laugh like this? We're so dreadfully starved for entertainment.
Jean-Baptiste Poquelin:
What, madame? I thought the greatest minds jostled their way in here.
Célimène:
If you knew what we endured. It's often a draw between boredom and the grotesque. People jostle, yes, only to declare their unwanted passion. Like that poor Mr. Jourdain.
Jean-Baptiste Poquelin:
Mr. Jourdain, you say?
Célimène:
Imagine a farmyard rooster, disguised as a pheasant, sputtering rhymes in my face a child of eight would no longer dare read. You see my predicament. Then the oaf gazes stupidly at me hoping to be loved in return. As if I could possibly be interested in every uncouth merchant and farmer who aspires to become a marquis.
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