Chapter 1

SCENE:--_A Louis XV sitting-room. To the right a large recessed window with small panes of glass which forms a partition dividing the sitting-room from an inner room. A heavy curtain on the further side shuts out this other room. There are a table and piano and doors to the right and at the back. The place is in disorder. One of the panes in the large window has been taken out and replaced by a movable panel. It is October._

_Madame Gueret is sitting at a table. She is a woman of forty-five, dressed for the afternoon, cold and distinguished looking. Monsieur Gueret, who is with her, is about fifty-five and is wearing a frock coat. He is standing beside his wife._

GUERET. Then you really don't want me to go and hear the third act?

MADAME GUERET [_dryly_] I think as I've been let in for these theatricals solely to please your goddaughter you may very well keep me company. Besides, my brother is coming back and he has something to say to you.

GUERET [_resignedly_] Very well, my dear.

_A pause._

MADAME GUERET. I can't get over it.

GUERET. Over what?

MADAME GUERET. What we're doing. What _are_ we doing?

GUERET. We're giving a performance of _Barberine_ for the amusement of our friends. There's nothing very extraordinary in that.

MADAME GUERET. Don't make fun of me, please. What we are doing is simply madness. Madness, do you hear? And it was the day before yesterday--only the day before yesterday--we heard the news.

GUERET. We--

MADAME GUERET [_Who has seen Lucienne come in_] Hush!

_Lucienne comes in, a girl of twenty, dressed as Barberine from Musset's play; then Maud, Nadia, and Antoinette [eighteen to twenty-two], dressed as followers of the queen. Lucienne goes to the piano, takes a piece of music, and comes to Madame Gueret._

LUCIENNE. You'll help me along, won't you, dear Madame Gueret? You'll give me my note when it comes to "Voyez vous pas que la nuit est profonde"?

MADAME GUERET. Now don't be nervous.

MAUD [_coming in_] We're ready.

ANTOINETTE. If the third act only goes as well as the first two--

MAUD. We'll listen until we have to go on.

ANTOINETTE. Won't you come with us, Madame?

MADAME GUERET. No, I can't. I've had to undertake the noises behind the scenes. _That_ job might have been given to someone else, I think.

LUCIENNE. Oh, Madame, please don't be angry with us. Madame Chain let us know too late. And you're helping us so much.

MADAME GUERET. Well, I've invited the people, and I suppose I must entertain them. As I gave in to Therese about getting up this play, I don't want to do anything to spoil the evening.

LUCIENNE. How pretty she is as Kalekairi.

MADAME GUERET. You don't think people are shocked by her frock?

LUCIENNE. Oh, Madame!

MADAME GUERET. Well!

LUCIENNE. I shall have to go in a moment. Therese has come out; I can hear her sequins rattling.

MADAME GUERET. Yes; so can I. But Rene will let us know. Never mind.

_She goes to the piano. Rene appears at the door at the back._

RENE. Are you ready, Lucienne?

LUCIENNE. Yes.

RENE. You've only two lines to say.

LUCIENNE. Only one. [_She speaks low to Rene_] No end of a success, wasn't it, for your Therese?

RENE [_low_] Wasn't it? I _am_ so happy, Lucienne. I love her so.

LUCIENNE. Listen. That's for me, I think.

RENE. Yes, that's for you. Wait. [_He goes to the door at the back, listens, and returns_] Come. Turn this way so as to make it sound as if you were at a distance. Now then.

_Madame Gueret accompanies Lucienne on the piano._

LUCIENNE [_sings_]

Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre, Qu'allez vous faire Si loin d'ici?

Voyez-vous pas que la nuit est profonde Et que le monde N'est que souci.

MADAME GUERET [_civilly_] You have a delightful voice, Mademoiselle Lucienne.

_Lucienne places her music on the piano with a smile to Madame Gueret._

RENE [_to Lucienne, drawing her to the partition window and showing her where a pane has been removed_] And your little window! Have you seen your little window? It was not there at the dress rehearsal. You lift it like this. It's supposed to be an opening in the wall. It ought to have been different; we were obliged to take out a pane. May I show her, Madame Gueret?

MADAME GUERET [_resigned_] Yes, yes, of course.

RENE. You lift it like this; and to speak you'll lean forward, won't you, so that they may see you?

LUCIENNE. I will, yes.

RENE. Don't touch it now. [_To Madame Gueret_] You won't forget the bell, will you, Madame? There's plenty of time--ten minutes at least. I'll let you know. Mademoiselle Lucienne, now, time to go on.

LUCIENNE. Yes, yes. [_She goes out_]

MADAME GUERET [_with a sigh_] To have a play being acted in the circumstances we're in--it's beyond everything! I cannot think how I came to allow it.

GUERET. You see they'd been rehearsing for a week. And Therese--

MADAME GUERET. And I not only allowed it, but I'm almost taking part in it.

GUERET. We couldn't put off all these people at twenty-four hours' notice. And it's our last party. It's really a farewell party. Besides, we should have had to tell Therese everything.

MADAME GUERET. Well, you asked me to keep it all from her until to-morrow--though it concerns her as much as it does us. [_Monsieur Feliat comes in, a man of sixty, correct without being elegant_] Here's my brother.

FELIAT. I've something to tell you. Shall we be interrupted?

MADAME GUERET. Yes, constantly.

FELIAT. Let's go into another room.

MADAME GUERET. I can't. And all the rooms are full of people.

GUERET. Marguerite has been good enough to help here by taking the place of Madame Chain, who's ill.

MADAME GUERET [_angrily_] Yes, I've got to do the noises heard off! At my age! [_A sigh_] Tell us, Etienne, what is it?

GUERET. We can wait until the play is over.

MADAME GUERET. So like you! You don't care a bit about what my brother has to tell us. Who'd ever believe this is all your fault! [_To her brother_] What is it?

FELIAT. I have seen the lawyer. Your goddaughter will have to sign this power of attorney so that it may get to Lyons to-morrow morning.

GUERET [_who has glanced at the paper_] But we can't get her to sign that without telling her all about it.

MADAME GUERET. Well, goodness me, she'll have to know sometime! I must say I cannot understand the way you've kept this dreadful thing from her. It's pure sentimentality.

GUERET. The poor child!

MADAME GUERET. You really are ridiculous. One would think that it was only _her_ money the lawyer took. It's gone, of course; but so is ours.

GUERET. We still have La Tremblaye.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, thank goodness, because La Tremblaye belongs to me.

_Rene comes in in great excitement._

RENE. Where is Mademoiselle Therese? She'll keep the stage waiting! [_Listening_] No, she's coming, I hear her. Nice fright she's given me! [_To Madame Gueret_] Above all, Madame, don't forget the bell, almost the moment that Mademoiselle Therese comes off the stage.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, yes.

RENE. And my properties! [_He runs out_]

FELIAT. Now we can talk for a minute.

MADAME GUERET. Yes.

FELIAT. You've quite made up your minds to come to Evreux?

GUERET. Quite.

FELIAT. Are you sure you won't regret Paris?

MADAME GUERET. Oh, no.

GUERET. For the last two years I've hated Paris.

MADAME GUERET. Since you began to play cards.

GUERET. For the last two years we've had the greatest difficulty in keeping up appearances. This lawyer absconding is the last blow.

FELIAT. Aren't you afraid you will be horribly bored at La Tremblaye?

GUERET [_rising_] What are we to do?

FELIAT. Well, now listen to me. I told you--

_Rene comes in and takes something off a table. Feliat stops suddenly._

RENE. Good-morning, uncle. [_He hurries out_]

FELIAT. Good-morning, Rene.

GUERET. He knows nothing about it yet?

FELIAT. No; and my sister-in-law asked me to tell him.

MADAME GUERET. Well, why shouldn't you? If they _are_ engaged, we know nothing about it.

GUERET. Oh!

MADAME GUERET. We know nothing officially, because in these days young people don't condescend to consult their parents.

FELIAT. Rene told his people and they gave their consent.

MADAME GUERET. Unwillingly.

FELIAT. Oh certainly, unwillingly. Then I'm to tell him?

MADAME GUERET. The sooner the better.

FELIAT. I'll tell him to-night.

GUERET. I'm afraid it'll be an awful blow to the poor chap.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, he's young. He'll get over it.

FELIAT. What was I saying when he came in? Ah, yes; you know I've decided to add a bindery to my printing works at Evreux; you saw the building started when you were down there. If things go as I want them to, I shall try to do some cheap artistic binding. I want to get hold of a man who won't rob me to manage this new branch and look after it; a man who won't be too set in his ideas, because I want him to adopt mine; and, at the same time, I'd like him to be not altogether a stranger. I thought I'd found him; but I saw the man yesterday and I don't like him. Now will _you_ take on the job? Would it suit you?

GUERET. Would it suit me! Oh, my dear Feliat, how can I possibly thank you? To tell you the truth, I've been wondering what in the world I should do with myself now; and I was dreading the future. What you offer me is better than anything I could have dreamt of. What do you say, Marguerite?

MADAME GUERET. I am delighted.

FELIAT. Then that's all right.

GUERET [_to his brother-in-law_] I think you won't regret having confidence in me.

FELIAT. And your goddaughter?

MADAME GUERET. Therese?

FELIAT. Yes; how is _she_ going to face this double news of her ruin and the breaking off of her engagement?

MADAME GUERET. I think she ought to have sense enough to understand that one is the consequence of the other. She can hardly expect Rene's parents to give their son to a girl without money.

FELIAT. I suppose not. But what's to become of her?

GUERET. She will live with us, of course.

MADAME GUERET. "Of course"! I like that.

GUERET. She has no other relations, and her father left her in my care.

MADAME GUERET. He left her in _your_ care, and it's _I_ who have been rushed into all the trouble of a child who is nothing to me.

GUERET. Child! She was nineteen when her father died.

FELIAT. To look after a young girl of nineteen is a very great responsibility.

MADAME GUERET [_laughing bitterly_] Ho! Ho! Look after! Look after Mademoiselle Therese! You think she's a person who allows herself to be looked after! And yet you've seen her more or less every holidays.

GUERET. You've not had to look after her; she has been at the Lycee.

_Therese comes in dressed as Kalekairi from "Barberine." She is a pretty girl of twenty-three, healthy, and bright._

THERESE. The bell, the bell, godmother! You're forgetting the bell! Good-evening, Monsieur Feliat.

_Therese takes up the bell, which is on the table._

MADAME GUERET. I was going to forget it! Oh, what a nuisance! All this is so new to me.

FELIAT. Excuse me! I really didn't recognize you for the moment.

THERESE [_laughing_] Ah, my dress. Startling, isn't it?

MADAME GUERET [_with meaning_] Startling is the right word.

RENE [_appearing at the back, disappearing again immediately, and calling_] The bell! And you, on the stage, Mademoiselle Therese!

THERESE. I'm coming. [_She rings_] Here I am!

_She goes out._

MADAME GUERET [_with a sigh_] And I had it let down!

FELIAT. What?

MADAME GUERET. Her dress. [_To her husband_] What I see most clearly in all this is that she must stay with us.

_Rene comes fussing in._

RENE. Where's the queen? Where's Madame Nerisse?

MADAME GUERET. I've not seen her.

RENE. But goodness gracious--! [_He goes to the door on the left and calls_] Madame Nerisse!

MADAME NERISSE [_from outside_] Yes, yes, I'm ready.

_Madame Nerisse comes in. She is about forty, flighty, and a little affected._

RENE. I wanted to warn you that Ulric will be on your right, and if he plays the fool--

MADAME NERISSE. Very well. Is it time?

RENE. Yes, come. [_To Madame Gueret_] You won't forget the trumpets?

MADAME GUERET. No, no. All the same, you'd better help me.

RENE. I will, I will.

_He goes out with Madame Nerisse._

FELIAT. You know, if she wants one, she'll find a husband at Evreux.

MADAME GUERET. Without a penny!

FELIAT. Without a penny! She made a sensation at the ball at the sous-prefecture. She's extremely pretty.

MADAME GUERET. She's young.

FELIAT. Monsieur Gambard sounded me about her.

MADAME GUERET. Monsieur Gambard! The Monsieur Gambard who has the house with the big garden?

FELIAT. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. But he's very rich.

FELIAT. He's forty-nine.

MADAME GUERET. She'll have to take what she can get now.

FELIAT. And I think that Monsieur Beaudoin----

GUERET. But he's almost a cripple!

MADAME GUERET. She wouldn't do so well in Paris.

GUERET. She wouldn't look at either of them.

FELIAT. We must try and make her see reason.

_Rene enters busily. Lucienne follows him. Feliat is standing across the guichet through which Barberine is to speak. Rene pulls him away without ceremony._

RENE. Excuse me, Uncle; don't stand there before the little window.

FELIAT. Beg pardon. I didn't know.

RENE. I haven't a moment.

FELIAT. I've never seen you so busy. At your office they say you're a lazy dog.

MADAME GUERET. Probably Rene has more taste for the stage than for business.

RENE [_laughing_] Rather! [_To Lucienne_] Now, it's time. Come. Lift it. Not yet! There! _Now!_

LUCIENNE [_speaking through the guichet_] "If you want food and drink, you must do like those old women you despise--you must spin."

RENE. Capital!

LUCIENNE [_to Feliat_] Please forgive me, Monsieur, I've not had time to speak to you.

FELIAT. Why, it's Mademoiselle Lucienne, Therese's friend, who came and stayed in the holidays! Fancy my not recognizing you!

LUCIENNE. It's my dress. I _do_ like playing this part. I have to say that lovely bit--you know--the bit that describes the day of the ideal wife. [_She recites, sentimentally_] "I rise and go to prayers, to the farmyard, to the kitchen. I prepare your meal; I go with you to church; I read a page or two; I sew a while; and then I fall asleep happy upon your breast."

FELIAT. That's good, oh, that's very good! _Barberine_--now, who wrote that?

LUCIENNE. Alfred de Musset.

FELIAT. Ah, yes; to be sure, Alfred de Musset. I read him when I was young. You often find his works lying about in pretty bindings.

RENE. Uncle, Uncle; I beg your pardon, but don't speak so loud. We can hardly hear what they're saying on the stage.

FELIAT [_very politely_] Sorry, I'm sure.

RENE [_to Lucienne_] You. _Now._

LUCIENNE [_speaking through the guichet_] "My lord, these cries are useless. It grows late. If you wish to sup--you must spin." [_turning to the others_] There! Now I must go over the rest with Ulric.

_She runs out, with a little wave of adieu to Feliat._

RENE [_to Madame Gueret_] The trumpets, Madame. Don't forget.

MADAME GUERET. No, no. Don't worry.

_Rene goes out._

FELIAT. You blow trumpets?

MADAME GUERET. Yes; on the piano.

FELIAT. I don't know what to do with myself. I don't want to be in the way. I'm not accustomed to being behind the scenes.

MADAME GUERET. Nor am I.

_Therese comes in in the Kalekairi dress, followed by Rene._

THERESE. It's time for me now.

FELIAT [_to Madame Gueret_] She really looks like a professional actress.

RENE [_to Therese_] Now!

THERESE [_speaking through the little window_] "My lady says, as you will not spin, you cannot sup. She thinks you are not hungry, and I wish you good-night." [_She closes the little window and says gayly_] Good-evening, Monsieur Feliat.

RENE. Now then, come along. You go on in one minute.

THERESE [_to Feliat_] I'll come back soon.

_She goes out._

RENE [_to Madame Gueret_] Now, Madame, _you_, Quick, Madame!

MADAME GUERET. Yes, yes. All right.

_She plays a flourish of trumpets on the piano._

RENE. Splendid!

MADAME GUERET. Ouf! It's over. At last we can have peace! If she's such a fool as to refuse both these men--

GUERET [_interrupting_] She won't refuse, you may be sure.

MADAME GUERET [_continuing_]--we shall have to keep her with us. But I shall insist upon certain conditions.

GUERET. What conditions?

MADAME GUERET. I won't have any scandals at Evreux.

GUERET. There won't be any scandals.

MADAME GUERET. No; because she'll have to behave very differently, I can tell you. She'll have to leave all these fine airs of independence behind her in Paris.

GUERET. What airs?

MADAME GUERET. Well, for instance, getting letters and answering them without any sort of supervision! [_To her brother_] She manages in such a way that I don't even see the envelopes! [_To her husband_] I object very much, too, to her student ways.

GUERET. She goes to classes and lectures with her girl friends.

MADAME GUERET. Well, she won't go to any more. And she will have to give up going out alone.

GUERET. She's of age.

MADAME GUERET. A properly brought up young lady is never of age.

FELIAT. Perfectly true.

MADAME GUERET. And there must be a change in her way of dressing.

GUERET. There will. She'll have to dress simply, for she won't have a rap.

MADAME GUERET. That has nothing to do with it. I shall make her understand that she will have to behave like the other girls in good society.

FELIAT. Of course.

MADAME GUERET. I shall also put a veto on certain books she reads. [_To her brother_] It's really dreadful, Etienne. You've no idea! One day I found a shocking book upon her table--a horror! What do you suppose she said when I remonstrated? That that disgraceful book was necessary in preparing for her examination. And the worst of it is, it was true. She showed me the syllabus.

FELIAT. I'm afraid they're bringing up our girls in a way that'll make unhappy women of them.

MADAME GUERET. Don't let's talk about it; you'll start on politics, and then you and Henri will begin to argue. All the same I mean to be very good to her. As soon as she knows what's happened her poor little pretensions will come tumbling about her ears. I won't leave her in uncertainty, and even before she asks I'll tell her she may stay with us; but I shall tell her, too, what I expect from her in return.

GUERET. Wouldn't it be better--

MADAME GUERET. My dear, I shall go my own way. See what we're suffering now in consequence of going _yours_. Here's Madame Nerisse. Then the play is over. [_To her husband_] You must go and look after the people at the supper table. I'll join you in a minute.

GUERET. All right.

_He goes out._

MADAME NERISSE. I've hardly ever been at such a successful party. I wanted to congratulate dear Therese, but she's gone to change her dress.

MADAME GUERET [_absently_] So glad. Were you speaking of having a notice of it in your paper?

MADAME NERISSE. Of your play! If I was going to notice it! I should think so! The photographs we had taken at the dress rehearsal are being developed. We shall have a wonderful description.

MADAME GUERET [_imploring_] Could it be stopped?

MADAME NERISSE. It's not possible! Just think how amazed the subscribers to _Feminine Art_ would be if they found nothing in their paper about your lovely performance of _Barberine_, even if the editress of the paper hadn't taken a part in the play. If it only depended on me, perhaps I could find some way out--explain it in some way, just to please you. But then there's your charming Therese--one of our contributors. I can't tell you what a wonderful success she's had with her two stories, illustrated by herself. People adore her.

MADAME GUERET. Nobody would know anything about it--

MADAME NERISSE. Nobody know! There are at least ten people among your guests who will send descriptions of this party to the biggest morning papers, simply for the sake of getting their own names into print. If _Feminine Art_ had nothing about it, it would be thought extremely odd, I assure you. [_She turns to Feliat_] Wouldn't it, Monsieur?

FELIAT. Pardon me, Madame, I know nothing about these things.

MADAME GUERET. Well, we'll say no more about it.

MADAME NERISSE. But what's the matter? You must have some very good reason for not wanting me to put in anything about your delightful party.

MADAME GUERET. No----only----[_Hesitating_] Some of our family are country people, you know. It would take me too long to explain it all to you. It doesn't matter. [_With a change of tone_] Then honestly you think Therese has some little talent?

MADAME NERISSE. Little talent! No, but very great talent. Haven't you read her two articles?

MADAME GUERET. Oh, I? I belong to another century. In my days it would have been considered a very curious thing if a young girl wrote novels. My brother feels this too. By the way, I have not introduced my brother to you. Monsieur Feliat, of Evreux--Madame Nerisse, editress of _Feminine Art_. Madame Nerisse has been kind enough to help us with our little party. [_To Madame Nerisse_] Yes--you were speaking about--what was it--this story that Therese has written. No doubt your readers were indulgent to the work of a little amateur.

MADAME NERISSE. I wish I could find professionals who'd do half as well. I'm perfectly certain the number her photograph is going to be in will have a good sale.

FELIAT. You'll publish her photograph?

MADAME NERISSE. In her dress as Kalekairi.

MADAME GUERET. In her dress as Kalekairi!

MADAME NERISSE. On the front page. They tell me it's a first-rate likeness. I'll bring you one of them before long, and your country relations will be delighted. If you'll excuse me, I'll hurry away and change my dress.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, please excuse me for keeping you.

MADAME NERISSE. Good-bye for the present. [_She goes to the door_] I was looking for Maud and Nadia to take them away with me. I see them over there having a little flirtation. [_She looks through the door and speaks pleasantly to Maud and Nadia, who are just outside_] All right, all right; I won't interrupt. [_To Madame Gueret_] They'd much rather come home alone. Good-bye. [_She bows to Feliat_] Good-bye, Monsieur. [_Turning again to Madame Gueret_] Don't look so upset because you have a goddaughter who can be a great writer or a great painter if she chooses; just as she would have been a great actress if she had taken a fancy for that. Good-bye again and many congratulations.

_She goes out._

MADAME GUERET. Well! Anyway, she's not _my_ daughter! I must go and say good-bye to everybody. When I've got rid of them, I'll come back and see Therese. Will you wait for me? You'll find some papers on that little table. Oh, goodness, what times we live in!

_Madame Gueret goes out. Feliat, left alone, strolls to the door and looks in the direction in which Madame Nerisse had seen Maud and Nadia. After a moment he shows signs of indignation._

FELIAT [_shocked_] Oh, I say, this is really--I must cough or something, and let them know I'm here. [_He coughs_] They've seen me. They're waving their hands--and--they 're going on just the same!

_Lucienne and Therese in ordinary dress come in and notice what Feliat is doing._

THERESE [_to Lucienne_] What is he doing?

LUCIENNE. What's the matter?

_They advance to see what has caused his perturbation. He hears them and turns._

FELIAT. It is incredible!

THERESE. You seem rather upset. What's the matter?

FELIAT. What's the matter? Those girls are behaving in such a scandalous way with those young men.

LUCIENNE. Let's see.

FELIAT. Oh, don't look! [_Suddenly stopping, half to himself_] Though I must say--

THERESE [_laughing_] What must you say?

FELIAT. Nothing.

LUCIENNE. I know. You mean that we're just as bad.

FELIAT. No, no, not as bad.

LUCIENNE. Yes, yes; well--almost. [_Feliat makes a sign of protest_] I saw you watching us yesterday after the rehearsal! You saw I was flirting, and I know you imagined all sorts of horrid things. Our little flirtations are not what you think. When we flirt we play at love-making with our best boys, just as once upon a time we played at mothering with our dolls.

FELIAT. But that doesn't justify--

THERESE. You don't understand. People spoil us while we're children, and then look after us so tremendously carefully when we grow up that we guess there must be delightful and dangerous possibilities about us. Flirting is our way of feeling for these possibilities.

LUCIENNE. We're sharpening our weapons.

THERESE. But the foils have buttons on them, and the pistols are only loaded with powder.

LUCIENNE. And it's extremely amusing and does no harm to anybody.

THERESE. Monsieur Feliat, you've read bad books. Nowadays girls like us are neither bread-and-butter misses nor demi-vierges. We're perfectly respectable young people. Quite capable and self-possessed and, at the same time, quite straight and very happy.

FELIAT. I'm perfectly sure of it, my dear young ladies. But you know I've had a great deal of experience.

THERESE. Oh, _experience_! Well, you know--

LUCIENNE. Oh, _experience_!

THERESE. You say you have experience; that only means you know about the past better than we do. But we know much better than you do about the present.

FELIAT. I think those girls there are playing a dangerous game.

THERESE. You needn't have the smallest anxiety about them.

FELIAT. That way of going on might get them into great trouble.

THERESE. It won't, I assure you. Monsieur Feliat, believe me, you know nothing about it.

LUCIENNE. We're clever enough to be able to take care of ourselves.

FELIAT. But there are certain things that take you by storm.

LUCIENNE. Not us. Flirting is an amusement, a distraction, a game.

THERESE. Shall we say a safety valve?

LUCIENNE. There's not a single one of us who doesn't understand the importance of running straight. And, to do them justice, these boys have no idea of tempting us to do anything else. What they want, what we all really want, is a quite conventional, satisfactory marriage.

FELIAT. I most heartily approve; but in my days so much wisdom didn't usually come from such fascinating little mouths.

THERESE. Now how can you blame us when you see that really we think exactly as you do yourself?

FELIAT. In my days girls went neither to the Lycee nor to have gymnastic lessons, and they were none the less straight.

LUCIENNE [_reflectively_] And yet they grew up into the women of to-day. I get educated and try to keep myself healthy, with exercises and things, because I want to develop morally and physically, and be fit to marry a man a little bit out of the ordinary either in fortune or brains.

THERESE. You see our whole lives depend upon the man we marry.

FELIAT. I seem to have heard that before.

LUCIENNE. Yes; so've I. But it's none the less true for that.

THERESE. Isn't it funny that we seem to be saying the most shocking things when we're only repeating what our grandfathers and grandmothers preached to their children?

LUCIENNE. They were quite right. Love doesn't make happiness by itself. One has to consider the future. We do consider it; in fact we do nothing else but consider it. We want to get the best position for ourselves in the future that we possibly can. We're not giddy little fools, and we're not selfish egotists. We want our children to grow up happy and capable as we've done ourselves. We're really quite reasonable.

FELIAT [_hardly able to contain himself_] You are; indeed you are. It makes one shudder. Excuse me, I'm going to supper.

LUCIENNE. Let's all go together.

FELIAT. Thanks, I can find my way.

LUCIENNE. It's down that passage to the right.

FELIAT. Yes, I shall find it, thank you.

_He goes out._

THERESE. You shocked the poor old boy.

LUCIENNE. I only flavored the truth just enough to make it tasty. But I've something frightfully important to tell you. It's settled.

THERESE. What's settled?

LUCIENNE. I'm engaged.

THERESE. You don't say so.

LUCIENNE. It's done. Armand has been to his people and they've come to see mine. So I needn't play any more piano, nor sing any more sentimental songs; I needn't be clever any more, nor flirt any more, nor languish at young men any more. And how do you suppose it was settled? Just what one wouldn't have ever expected. You know my people were doing all they could to dress me up, and show me off, and seem to be richer than they are, so as to attract the men. On my side I was giving myself the smartest of airs and pretending to despise money and to think of nothing but making a splash. Everything went quite differently from what I expected. I wanted to attract Armand, and I was only frightening him off. He thought such a woman as I was pretending to be too expensive. It was just through a chance conversation, some sudden confidence on my part, that he found out that I really like quite simple things. He was delighted, and he proposed at once.

THERESE. Dear Lucienne, I'm so glad. I hope you'll be very, very happy.

LUCIENNE. Ah, that's another story. Armand is not by any means perfect. But what can one do? The important thing is to marry, isn't it?

THERESE. Of course. Well, if your engagement is on, mine's off.

LUCIENNE. Therese! Why I've just been talking to Rene. I never saw him so happy, nor so much in love.

THERESE. He doesn't know yet. Or perhaps they're telling him now.

LUCIENNE. Telling him what?

THERESE. I've lost all my money, my dear.

LUCIENNE. Lost all your money!

THERESE. Yes. The lawyer who had my securities has gone off with them.

LUCIENNE. When?

THERESE. I heard about it the day before yesterday. Godpapa and godmamma were so awfully good they never said anything to me about it, though they're losing a lot of money too. They thought I hadn't heard, and I expect they wanted me to have this last evening's fun. I said nothing, and so nobody knows anything except you, now, and probably Rene.

LUCIENNE. What will you do?

THERESE. What can I do? It's impossible for him to marry me without a penny. Of course I shall release him from his promise.

LUCIENNE. You think he'll give you up?

THERESE. His people will make him. If they cut off his allowance, he'll be at their mercy. He earns about twenty dollars a month in that lawyer's office. So, you see--

LUCIENNE. Oh! poor Therese! And you could play Barberine with a secret like that!

THERESE [_sadly_] I've had a real bad time since I heard. It's awful at night!

LUCIENNE. My dearest! And you love him so!

THERESE [_much moved_] Yes--oh! don't make me cry.

LUCIENNE. It might do you good!

THERESE. You know--[_She breaks down a little_]

LUCIENNE [_tenderly_] Yes--I know that you're good and brave.

THERESE. I shall have to be.

LUCIENNE. Then you'll break off the engagement?

THERESE. Yes. I shall never see him again.

LUCIENNE. Never see him again!

THERESE. I shall write to him. If I saw him I should probably break down. If I write I shall be more likely to be able to make him feel that we must resign ourselves to the inevitable.

LUCIENNE. He'll be horribly unhappy.

THERESE. So shall I. [_Low and urgently_] Oh, if he only understood me! If he was able to believe that I can earn my own living and that he could earn his. If he would dare to do without his people's consent!

LUCIENNE. Persuade him to!

THERESE. It's quite impossible. His people are rich. Only just think what they'd suspect me of. No; I shall tell him all the things his father will tell him. But oh! Lucienne, if he had an answer for them! If he had an answer! [_She cries a little_] But, my poor Rene, he won't make any stand.

LUCIENNE. How you love him!

THERESE. Oh, yes; I love him. He's rather weak, but he's so loyal and good and [_in a very low voice_] loving.

LUCIENNE. Oh, my dear, I do pity you so.

THERESE. I am to be pitied, really. [_Pulling herself together_] There's one thing. I shall take advantage of this business to separate from godpapa and godmamma.

LUCIENNE. But you have no money--

THERESE. I've not been any too happy here. You know they're--[_She sees Madame Gueret and whispers to Lucienne_] Go now. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow. [_Louder and gayly_] Well, good-night, my dear. See you to-morrow at the Palais de Glace or at the Sorbonne! Good-night.

LUCIENNE. Good-night, Therese.

_She goes out._

MADAME GUERET [_speaking through the door_] Yes, she's here. Come in. [_Gueret and Feliat come in_] Therese, we have something to say to you.

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

MADAME GUERET. It's about something important; something very serious. Let us sit down.

GUERET. You'll have to be brave, Therese.

MADAME GUERET. We are ruined, and you are ruined too.

THERESE. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. Is that all you have to say?

THERESE. I knew it already.

MADAME GUERET. You _knew_ it? Who told you?

THERESE. The lawyer told me himself. I had a long letter from him yesterday. He begs me to forgive him.

MADAME GUERET. Well, I declare!

THERESE. I'll show it to you. He's been gambling. To get a bigger fortune for his girls, he says.

MADAME GUERET. You _knew_ it! And you've had the strength, the--duplicity?

THERESE [_smiling_] Just as you had yourself, godmamma. And I'm so much obliged to both of you for saying nothing to me, because I'm sure you wanted me to have my play to-night and enjoy myself; and that was why you tried to keep the news from me.

MADAME GUERET. And you were able to laugh and to _act_!

THERESE. I've always tried to keep myself in hand.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, I know. All the same--And I was so careful about breaking this news to you, and you knew it all the time!

THERESE. I'm very sorry. But you--

MADAME GUERET. All right, all right. Well, then, we have nothing to tell. But do you understand that you've not a penny left?

GUERET. You're to go on living with us, of course.

MADAME GUERET [_to her husband_] You really might have given her time to ask us. [_To Therese_] We take it that you have asked us, and we answer that we will keep you with us.

GUERET. We are going to Evreux. My brother-in-law is giving me work in his factory.

MADAME GUERET. We will keep you with us, but on certain conditions.

THERESE. Thank you very much, godmamma, but I mean to stay in Paris.

GUERET. You don't understand. We are going to live at Evreux.

THERESE. But _I_ am going to live in Paris.

GUERET. Then it is I who do not understand.

THERESE. All the same--[_A silence_]

MADAME GUERET. I can hardly believe that you propose to live in Paris by yourself.

THERESE [_simply_] I do, godmamma.

FELIAT. Alone!

GUERET. Alone! I repeat, I don't understand.

FELIAT. Nor do I. But no doubt you have reasons to give to your godfather and godmother. [_He moves to go_]

THERESE. There's no secret about my reasons. All the world may know them. When I've explained you'll see that it's all right.

MADAME GUERET. I must confess to being extremely curious to hear these reasons.

THERESE. I do hope my decision won't make you angry with me.

MADAME GUERET. Angry! When have I ever been angry with you?

THERESE [_protesting_] You've both been--you've all three been--_most_ good and kind to me, and I shall always remember it and be grateful. You may be sure I shan't love you any the less because I shall live in Paris and you at Evreux. And I do beg of you to feel the same to me. I shall never forget what I owe to you. Father was only your friend; we're not related in any way: but you took me in, and for four years you've treated me as if I was your daughter. From my very heart I'm grateful to you.

GUERET [_affectionately_] You don't owe us much, you know. For two years you were a boarder at the Lycee Maintenon, and we saw nothing of you but your letters. You've only actually lived with us for two years, and you've been like sunshine in the house.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, indeed.

THERESE. I've thought this carefully over. I'm twenty-three. I won't be a burden to you any longer.

GUERET. Is that because you are too proud and independent?

THERESE. If I thought I could really be of use to you, I would stay with you. If I could help you to face your troubles, I would stay with you. But I can't, and I mean to shift for myself.

MADAME GUERET. And you think you can "shift for yourself," as you call it, all alone?

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

MADAME GUERET. A young girl, all alone, in Paris! The thing is inconceivable.

GUERET. But, my poor child, how do you propose to live?

THERESE. I'll work.

MADAME GUERET. You don't mean that seriously?

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

GUERET. You think you have only to ask for work and it will fall from the skies!

THERESE. I have a few dollars in my purse which will keep me until I have found something.

FELIAT. Your purse will be empty before you've made a cent.

THERESE. I'm sure it won't.

GUERET. Now, my dear, you're tired, and nervous, and upset. You can't look at things calmly. We can talk about this again to-morrow.

THERESE. Yes, godpapa. But I shan't have changed my mind.

MADAME GUERET. I know you have a strong will of your own.

FELIAT. Let us talk sensibly and reasonably. You propose to live all alone in Paris. Good. Where will you live?

THERESE. I shall hire a little flat--or a room somewhere.

MADAME GUERET. Like a workgirl.

THERESE. Like a workgirl. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that.

FELIAT. And you are going to earn your own living. How?

THERESE. I shall work. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that, either.

GUERET. I see. But a properly brought up young lady doesn't work for her living if she can possibly avoid it.

MADAME GUERET. And above all, a properly brought up young lady doesn't live all alone.

THERESE. All the same--

MADAME GUERET. You are perfectly free. There's no doubt about that. We have no power to prevent you from doing exactly as you choose.

GUERET. But your father left you in my care.

THERESE. Please, godmamma, don't be hard upon me. I feel you think I'm ungrateful, though you don't say so. I know that often and often I shall long for your kindness and for the home where you've given me a place. I've shocked you. Do please forgive me. I'm made like that, and made differently from you. I don't say you're not right; I only say I'm different. Certain ideas have come to me from being educated at the Lycee and from all these books I've read. I think I'm able to earn my own living, and so I look upon it as my bounden duty not to trespass upon your charity. It's a question of personal dignity. Don't you think that I'm right, godfather? [_With a change of tone_] Besides, if I did go to Evreux with you, what should I do there?

GUERET. It's pretty easy to guess.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, indeed.

GUERET. You would live with us.

MADAME GUERET [_not very kindly_] You would have a home.

THERESE. Yes, yes, I know all that; and it would be a great happiness. But what should I _do_?

GUERET. You would do what all well brought up young girls in your position do.

THERESE. You mean I should do nothing.

GUERET. Nothing! No, not nothing.

THERESE. Pay visits, practise a bit; some crochet and a little photography? That's to say, nothing.

GUERET. You were brought up to that.

THERESE. I should never have dared to put it into words. But afterwards?

GUERET. Afterwards?

THERESE. How long would that last?

GUERET. Until you marry.

THERESE. I shall never marry.

GUERET. Why not?

THERESE [_very gently_] Oh, godfather, you know why not. I have no money. [_A silence_] So I'm going to try and get work.

FELIAT. Work! Now, Therese, you know what women are like who try to earn their own living. You think you can support yourself. How?

THERESE. Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I think I can support myself by my pen.

FELIAT. Be a bluestocking?

THERESE. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. That means a Bohemian life, with everything upside down, and a cigarette always between your lips.

THERESE [_laughing_] Neither Bohemia, nor the upside down, nor the cigarette are indispensable, godmother. Your information is neither firsthand nor up-to-date.

FELIAT. In a month's time you'll want to give it up.

THERESE. Under those circumstances there's no harm in letting me make the experiment.

GUERET. Now, my dear child, don't you know that even with your cleverness you may have to wait years before you make a penny. I've been an editor. I know what I'm talking about.

MADAME GUERET. She's made up her mind, there's no use saying any more.

FELIAT. But _I_ want to talk to her now. Will you be so good as to listen to me, Mademoiselle Therese? [_To Madame Gueret_] I wonder if I might be allowed to have a few minutes with her alone.

MADAME GUERET. Most willingly.

GUERET [_to his wife_] Come, Marguerite.

MADAME GUERET. It's no use making up your mind to the worst in these days; life always keeps a surprise for you. Let's go. [_She goes out with her husband_]

FELIAT. My child, I have undertaken to say something to you that I fear will hurt you, and it's very difficult. You know that I'm only Rene's uncle by marriage. So it's not on my own account that I speak. I speak for his parents.

THERESE. Don't say another word, Monsieur Feliat. I perfectly understand. I'm going to release him from his engagement. I shall write to him this very night.

FELIAT. My sister-in-law and her husband are most unhappy about all this.

THERESE. I'm grateful to you all.

FELIAT. Their affection for you is not in any way diminished.

THERESE. I know.

FELIAT. And--

THERESE [_imploringly_] Please, _please_, Monsieur Feliat, don't say any more; what's the good of it?

FELIAT. I beg your pardon, my dear. I am a little upset. I was expecting--er, er--

THERESE. Expecting what?

FELIAT. I expected some resistance on your part, perhaps indignation. It must be very hard for you; you were very fond of Rene.

THERESE. What's the good of talking about that? Of course he can't marry me now that I've not got a penny.

FELIAT. You know--as a matter of fact--I--my old-fashioned ideas--well, you go on surprising me. But this time my surprise is accompanied by--shall I say respect?--and by sympathy. I expected tears, which would have been very natural, because I know that your affection for Rene was very great.

THERESE. I can keep my tears to myself.

FELIAT. Yes----Oh, I----at least----

THERESE. Let's consider it settled. Please don't talk to me about it any more.

FELIAT. Very well. Now will you allow me to say one word to you about your future?

THERESE. I shan't change my mind.

FELIAT. Perhaps not; all the same I want to advise you like--well, like an old uncle. For several years you have been spending your holidays with me at La Tremblaye. And I have a real affection for you. So you'll listen to me?

THERESE. With all my heart.

FELIAT. You're making a mistake. Your ideas do you credit, but believe me, you're laying up trouble for yourself in the future. [_She makes a movement to interrupt him_] Wait. I don't want to argue. I want you to listen to me, and I want to persuade you to follow my advice. Come to Evreux and you may be perfectly certain that you won't be left an old maid all your life. Even without money you'll find a husband there. You're too pretty, too charming, too well educated not to turn the head of some worthy gentleman. You made a sensation at the reception at the Prefecture. If you don't know that already, I tell you so.

THERESE. I'm extremely flattered.

FELIAT. Do you know that if--well, if you decide to marry--I might--

THERESE. But I've _not_ decided to marry.

FELIAT. All right, all right, I am speaking about later on. Well, you've seen Monsieur Baudoin and Monsieur Gambard--

THERESE. I haven't the slightest intention of--

FELIAT [_interrupting_] There's no question of anything immediate. But for a person as wise and sensible as you are, the position of both the one and the other deserves--

THERESE. I know them both.

FELIAT. Yes; but--

THERESE. Now look here. If I had two hundred thousand francs, would you suggest that I should marry either of them?

FELIAT. Certainly not.

THERESE. There, you see.

FELIAT. But you've _not_ got two hundred thousand francs.

THERESE [_without showing any anger or annoyance_] The last thing I want is to be exacting. But really, Monsieur Feliat, think for a minute. If I were to marry a man I could not possibly love, I should marry him for his money. [_Looking straight at him_] And in that case the only difference between me and the women I am not supposed to know anything about would be that a little ceremony had been performed over me and not over them. Don't you agree with me?

FELIAT. But, my dear, you say such extraordinary things.

THERESE. Well, do you consider that less dishonoring than working? Honestly now, do you? I think that the best thing about women earning their living is that it'll save them from being put into exactly that position.

FELIAT. The right thing for woman is marriage. That's her proper position.

THERESE. It's sometimes an unhappy one. [_A maid comes in bringing a card to Therese, who says_] Ask the lady kindly to wait a moment.

MAID. Yes, Mademoiselle. [_The maid goes out_]

FELIAT. Well, I'm off. I shall go and see Rene. Then you'll write to him?

THERESE. This very evening.

FELIAT. He'll want to see you. My child, will you have the courage to resist him?

THERESE. You needn't trouble about that.

FELIAT. If he was mad enough to want to do without his parents' consent, they wish me to tell you that they would never speak to him again.

THERESE. I see.

FELIAT. That he would be a stranger to them. You understand all that that means?

THERESE [_discouraged_] Yes, yes; oh yes.

FELIAT. If you are not strong enough to stand out against his entreaties, you will be his ruin.

THERESE. I quite understand.

FELIAT. People would think very badly of you.

THERESE. Please don't say any more, I quite understand.

FELIAT. Then I may trust you?

THERESE. You may trust me.

FELIAT [_fatherly and approving_] Thank you. [_He holds out his hand_] Therese, you're--well--you're splendid. I like courage. I wish you success with all my heart. I really wish you success. But if, in the future, you should want a friend--the very strongest may find themselves in that position--let me be that friend.

THERESE [_taking the hand which Feliat holds out to her_] I'm grateful, very grateful, Monsieur. Thank you. But I hope I shall be able to earn my own living. That is all I want.

FELIAT. I wish you every success. Good-bye, Mademoiselle.

THERESE. Good-bye, Monsieur. [_He goes out. She crosses to another door and brings in Madame Nerisse_] How good of you to come, dear Madame. Too bad you should have the trouble.

MADAME NERISSE. Nonsense, my dear. I wanted to come. I'm so anxious to show you these two photographs and consult you about which we're to publish. I expected to find you very tired.

THERESE. I am not the least tired, and I'm delighted to see you.

MADAME NERISSE [_showing Therese the photographs_] This is more brilliant, that's more dreamy. I like this one. What do you think?

THERESE. I like this one too.

MADAME NERISSE. Then that's settled. [_Putting down the photographs_] What a success you had this evening.

THERESE. Yes; people are very kind. [_Seriously_] I'm so glad you've come just now, dear Madame, so that we can have a few minutes' quiet talk. I have something most important to say to you.

MADAME NERISSE. Anything I can do for you?

THERESE. Well, I'll explain. And please do talk to me quite openly and frankly.

MADAME NERISSE. I will indeed.

THERESE. You told me that my article was very much liked. I can quite believe that you may have exaggerated a little out of kindness to me. I want to know really whether you think I write well.

MADAME NERISSE. Dear Therese, ask Madame Gueret to tell you what I said to her just now about that very thing.

THERESE. Then you think my collaboration might be really useful to _Feminine Art_?

MADAME NERISSE. There's nothing more useful to a paper like ours than the collaboration of girls in society.

THERESE. Would you like me to send you some more stories like the first?

MADAME NERISSE. As many as you can.

THERESE. And--[_She hesitates a moment_] and would you pay me the same price for them as for the one you've just published?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, exactly the same; and I shall be very glad to get them. I like your work; you have an exceptionally light touch; people won't get tired of reading your stuff.

THERESE. Oh, I hope that's true! I'm going to tell you some bad news. For family reasons my godfather and godmother are going to leave Paris. I shall stay here by myself, and I shall have to live by my pen.

MADAME NERISSE. What an idea!

THERESE. It's not an idea, it's a necessity.

MADAME NERISSE. What do you mean? A necessity? Monsieur Gueret--. But I mustn't be inquisitive.

THERESE. You're not inquisitive, and I'll tell you all about it very soon; we haven't got time now. Can you promise to take a weekly article from me?

MADAME NERISSE [_with less confidence_] Certainly.

THERESE [_joyfully_] You can! Oh, thank you, thank you! I can't tell you how you've relieved my mind.

MADAME NERISSE. My dear child. I am glad you've spoken to me plainly. I will do everything I possibly can. I'm extremely fond of you. I don't think the Directors will object.

THERESE. Why should they have anything to do with it?

MADAME NERISSE [_doubtfully_] Perhaps not, but--the Directors like to give each number a character of its own. It's a thing they're very particular about.

THERESE. I could write about very different subjects.

MADAME NERISSE. I know you could, but it would be always the same signature.

THERESE. Well, every now and then I might sign a fancy name.

MADAME NERISSE. That would be quite easy, and I don't think the Directors would mind. They might say it was a fresh name to make itself known and liked.

THERESE. We'll try and manage it.

MADAME NERISSE. We shall have to fight against some jealousy. The Directors have protegees. The wife of one of them has been waiting to get an innings for more than two months. There are so many girls and women who write nowadays.

THERESE. Yes; but generally speaking their work is not worth much, I think.

MADAME NERISSE. Oh, I don't know that. There are a great many who have real talent. People don't realize what a lot of girls there are who have talent. But, still, if I'm not able to take an article every week, you may rely upon me to take one as often as I possibly can. Oh, I shall make myself some enemies for your sake.

THERESE [_in consternation_] Enemies? How do you mean enemies?

MADAME NERISSE. My dear, it alters everything if you become a professional. Let me see if I can explain. We have our regular contributors. The editor makes them understand that they must expect to run the gantlet of the occasional competition of society women; because, if these women are allowed to write, it interests them and their families in the paper, and it's an excellent advertisement for us. That'll explain to you, by the way, why we sometimes publish articles not quite up to our standard. But if it's a matter of regular, professional work, we have to be more careful. We have to respect established rights and consider people who've been with us a long time. There is only a limited space in each number, and a lot of people have to live out of that.

THERESE [_who has gone quite white_] Yes, I see.

MADAME NERISSE [_who sees Therese's emotion_] How sorry I am for you! If you only knew how I feel for you! Don't look so unhappy. [_Therese makes a gesture of despair_] You're not an ordinary girl, Therese, and it shall never be said that I didn't do all I could for you. Listen. I told you just now that I had some big projects in my mind. You shall know what they are. My husband and I are going to start an important weekly feminist paper on absolutely new lines. It's going to leave everything that's been done up to now miles behind. My husband shall explain his ideas to you himself. It'll be advanced and superior and all that, and at the same time most practical. Even to think of it has been a touch of genius. When you meet my husband you'll find that he's altogether out of the common. He's so clever, and he'd be in the very first rank in journalism if it wasn't for the envy and jealousy of other men who've intrigued against him and kept him down. I don't believe he has his equal in Paris as a journalist, I'll read you some of his verses, and you'll see that he's a great poet too. But I shall run on forever. Only yesterday he got the last of the capital that's needed for founding the paper; it's been definitely promised. We're ready to set about collecting our staff. We shall have leading articles, of course, and literary articles. Do you want me to talk to him about you?

THERESE. Of course I do. But--

MADAME NERISSE. We want to start a really smart, respectable woman's paper; of course without sacrificing our principles. Our title by itself proves that. It's to be called _Woman Free_.

THERESE. I'll give you my answer to-morrow--or this evening, if you like.

MADAME NERISSE [_hesitatingly_] Before I go--as we're to be thrown a good deal together--I must tell you something about myself--a secret. I hope you won't care for me less when you know it. I call myself Madame Nerisse. But I have no legal right to the name. That's why I've always found some reason for not introducing Monsieur Nerisse to you and your people. He's married--married to a woman who's not worthy of him. She lives in an out-of-the-way place in the country and will not consent to a divorce. My dear Therese, it makes me very unhappy. I live only for him. I don't think a woman can be fonder of a man than I am of him. He's so superior to other men. But unfortunately I met him too late. I felt I ought to tell you this.

THERESE. Your telling me has added to my friendship for you. I can guess how unhappy you are. Probably I'll go this very evening to your house and see your husband and hear from him if he thinks I can be of use. Anyway, thank you very much.

MADAME NERISSE. And thank _you_ for the way you take this. Good-bye for the present.

_She goes out. Therese stands thinking for a moment, then Rene comes in. He is very much upset._

THERESE. Rene!

RENE. Therese, it can't be true! It's not possible! It's not all over--our love?

THERESE. We must be brave.

RENE. But I can't give you up.

THERESE. I've lost every penny, Rene dear.

RENE. But I don't love you any the less for that. I can't give you up, Therese. I _can't_ give you up. I love you, I love you.

THERESE. Oh, Rene, don't! I need all my courage to face this. Help me. Don't you see, your people will never consent now.

RENE. My uncle told me so. But I'll see them. I'll persuade them. I'll explain to them.

THERESE. You know very well they never really liked me, and that they'll be glad of this opportunity of breaking it off.

RENE. I don't know what to do. But I _cannot_ give you up. What would become of me without you? You're everything to me, everything. And suddenly--because of this dreadful thing--I must give up my whole life's happiness.

THERESE. Your people are quite right, Rene.

RENE. And you, _you_ say that!

_He hides his face in his hands. A silence._

THERESE [_gently removing his hands_] Look at me, Rene. You're crying. Oh, my dear love!

RENE [_taking her in his arms_] I love you, I love you!

THERESE. And I love you. Oh, please don't cry any more! [_She kisses him_] Rene, dear, don't cry any more! You break my heart. I can't bear it, I'm forgetting all I ought to say to you. [_Breaking down_] Oh, how dreadful this is! [_They cry together. Then she draws herself away from him, saying_] This is madness.

RENE. Ah, stay, Therese.

THERESE. No. We mustn't do this; we must be brave. Oh, why did you come here? I was going to write to you. We're quite helpless against this dreadful misfortune.

RENE. I don't know what to do! But I _can't_ give you up.

THERESE [_to herself_] I must do the right thing. [_To him_] Rene, stop crying. Listen to me.

RENE. I love you.

THERESE. Yes; there's our love. But besides that there's life, and life is cruel and too strong for our love. There is your future, my dearest.

RENE. My future is to love you. My future is nothing if I lose you. [_He buries his face in his hands_]

THERESE. You can't marry a girl without any money. That's a dreadful fact, like a stone wall. We shall only break ourselves to pieces if we dash ourselves against it. Listen, oh, please listen to me. Don't you hear what I'm saying? Rene--dear.

RENE. I'm listening.

THERESE. I give you your freedom without any bitterness or hardness.

RENE. I don't want it!

THERESE. Now listen. You mustn't sacrifice your whole life for a love affair, no matter how great the love is.

RENE. It's by losing you I shall sacrifice my life.

THERESE. Try and be brave; control yourself. Let us face this quietly. Suppose we do without your people's consent. What will become of us? Try to look the thing in the face. How should we live? Rene, it's horrible to bring our love down to the level of these miserable realities, but facts are facts. You know very well that if you marry me without your father and mother's consent, they won't give you any money. Isn't that so?

RENE. Oh! father is hard.

THERESE. He's quite right, my dear, quite right. If I was your sister, I should advise you not to give up the position you have been brought up in and the profession you've been educated for.

RENE. But I love you.

THERESE [_moved_] And I love you. Well, we've got to forget one another.

RENE. That's impossible.

THERESE. We must be wise enough to--[_She stops, her voice breaks_]

RENE. Oh! how unhappy I am.

THERESE [_controlling herself_] Don't let yourself go. We're not in dreamland. If you keep on saying "I am unhappy," you'll be unhappy.

RENE. I love you so. Oh, Therese, how I love you!

THERESE [_softly_] You'll forget me.

RENE. Never.

THERESE. Yes. You'll remember me in a way, of course. But you're young. Very soon you'll be able to live, to laugh, to love, to work.

RENE. My dearest! I don't know what to say. I can't talk of it. I only know one thing--I can't let you go.

THERESE. But we should be miserable, Rene.

RENE. Miserable _together_!

THERESE. Think, dear, think. It will be years before you can earn your own living, won't it?

RENE. But I--

THERESE. Now you know you've tried already. Only last year you wanted to leave home and be independent, and you had to go back because you were starving. Isn't that true?

RENE. It's dreadful, dreadful! [_He is overcome, terrified_]

THERESE. So we must look at life as it is, practically, mustn't we? We have to have lodging and furniture and clothes. How are we to manage?

RENE. It's dreadful!

THERESE. How would you bear to see me going about in rags? [_He is silent. She waits, looking at him, hoping for a word of strength or courage. It does not come. She draws herself up slowly, her face hardening_] You can't face that, can you? Tell me. Can you face that?

RENE. No.

THERESE [_humiliated by his want of courage and infected by his weakness_] So you see, I'm right.

RENE [_sobbing_] Oh! Oh!

THERESE [_setting her teeth_] Oh, can you do nothing but cry?

RENE. What a useless creature I am.

THERESE. There, now, you see you're better!

RENE. I'm ashamed of being so good-for-nothing.

THERESE [_hopeless_] You're just like all the others. Now, don't be miserable. I'm not angry with you; you are doing what I told you we must do, and you agree. Go, Rene. Say good-bye. Good-bye, Rene.

RENE. Therese!

THERESE [_her nerves on edge_] Everything we can say is useless, and it'll only torture and humiliate us. We must end this--now--at once.

RENE. I shall always love you, Therese.

THERESE. Yes--exactly--now go.

RENE. Oh, my God!

THERESE. Go.

RENE. I'll go and see my people. They'll never be so cruel--

THERESE. Yes, yes, all right.

RENE. I'll write you.

THERESE. Yes--that's it--you'll write.

RENE. I shall see you again, Therese? [_He goes slowly to the door_]

THERESE [_ashamed for him, covers her face with her hands. Then, all of a sudden, she bursts out into passionate sobs, having lost all control of herself, and cries wildly_] Rene!

RENE [_returning, shocked_] Therese! Oh, what is it?

THERESE [_completely at the mercy of her feelings_] Suppose--suppose after all, we _did_ it? Listen. I love you far more than you know, more than I have ever let you know. A foolish feeling of self-respect made me hide a lot from you. Trust me. Trust your future to me. Marry me all the same. Believe in me. Marry me. You don't know how strong I am and all the things I can do. I will work, and you will work. You didn't get on when you were alone, but you will when you have me with you. I'll keep you brave when things go badly, and I'll be happy with you when they go right. Rene, I'll be content with so little! The simplest, humblest, hardest life, until we've made our way together--_together_, Rene, and conquered a place in the world for ourselves, that we'll owe to no one but ourselves. Let us have courage--[_At this point she looks at him, and having looked she ceases to speak_]

RENE. Therese, I'm sure my people will give in.

THERESE [_after a very long silence, inarticulately_] Go, go; poor Rene. Forget what I said. Good-bye.

RENE. Oh, no! not good-bye. I'll make my father help us.

THERESE [_sharply_] Too late, my friend, I don't want you now.

_She leaves the room. Rene sinks into a chair and covers his face with his hands._