"I wanted to prove to you, monsieur, that nothing is simple; but above all--and what I am going to say is intended for philosophers--I wish (if you'll allow me to misquote a saying of Louis XVIII.),--I wish to make you see that definitions lead to muddles." Poiret [wiping his forehead].

"Excuse me, I am sick at my stomach" [tries to button his coat].

"Ah! you have cut off all my buttons!" Bixiou.

"But the point is, /do you understand me/ ?" Poiret [angrily].

"Yes, monsieur, I do; I understand that you have been playing me a shameful trick and twisting off my buttons while I have been standing here unconscious of it." Bixiou [solemnly].