There are Crimes and Crimes

A Comedy

by

August Strindberg

Translated from the Swedish with an Introduction by Edwin Bjorkman

INTRODUCTION

Strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "There Are Crimes andCrimes. " In the same year, 1899, he produced three of his finesthistorical dramas: "The Saga of the Folkungs, " "Gustavus Vasa, "and "Eric XIV. " Just before, he had finished "Advent, " which hedescribed as "A Mystery, " and which was published together with"There Are Crimes and Crimes" under the common title of "In aHigher Court. " Back of these dramas lay his strange confessionalworks, "Inferno" and "Legends, " and the first two parts of hisautobiographical dream-play, "Toward Damascus"--all of which werefinished between May, 1897, and some time in the latter part of1898. And back of these again lay that period of mental crisis, when, at Paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold by thetransmutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spiritwas travelling through all the seven hells in its search for theheaven promised by the great mystics of the past. 

"There Are Crimes and Crimes" may, in fact, be regarded as hisfirst definite step beyond that crisis, of which the precedingworks were at once the record and closing chord. When, in 1909, heissued "The Author, " being a long withheld fourth part of hisfirst autobiographical series, "The Bondwoman's Son, " he prefixedto it an analytical summary of the entire body of his work. Opposite the works from 1897-8 appears in this summary thefollowing passage: "The great crisis at the age of fifty;revolutions in the life of the soul, desert wanderings, Swedenborgian Heavens and Hells. " But concerning "There Are Crimesand Crimes" and the three historical dramas from the same year hewrites triumphantly: "Light after darkness; new productivity, withrecovered Faith, Hope and Love--and with full, rock-firmCertitude. "

In its German version the play is named "Rausch, " or"Intoxication, " which indicates the part played by the champagnein the plunge of Maurice from the pinnacles of success to thedepths of misfortune. Strindberg has more and more come to seethat a moderation verging closely on asceticism is wise for mostmen and essential to the man of genius who wants to fulfil hisdivine mission. And he does not scorn to press home even thiscomparatively humble lesson with the naive directness and fieryzeal which form such conspicuous features of all his work. 

But in the title which bound it to "Advent" at their jointpublication we have a better clue to what the author himselfundoubtedly regards as the most important element of his work--itsreligious tendency. The "higher court, " in which are tried thecrimes of Maurice, Adolphe, and Henriette, is, of course, thehighest one that man can imagine. And the crimes of which theyhave all become guilty are those which, as Adolphe remarks, "arenot mentioned in the criminal code"--in a word, crimes against thespirit, against the impalpable power that moves us, against God. The play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritualchange, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the watersof life to the state where it is definitely oriented and impelled. 

There are two distinct currents discernible in this dramaticrevelation of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual order--for to order the play must be said to lead, and progress isimplied in its onward movement, if there be anything at all in ourgrowing modern conviction that ANY vital faith is better than noneat all. One of the currents in question refers to the means ratherthan the end, to the road rather than the goal. It brings us backto those uncanny soul-adventures by which Strindberg himself wonhis way to the "full, rock-firm Certitude" of which the play inits entirety is the first tangible expression. The elementsentering into this current are not only mystical, but occult. Theyare derived in part from Swedenborg, and in part from thatpicturesque French dreamer who signs himself "Sar Peladan"; butmostly they have sprung out of Strindberg's own experiences inmoments of abnormal tension. 

What happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at Paris in 1895, and what he later described with such bewildering exactitude inhis "Inferno" and "Legends, " all this is here presented indramatic form, but a little toned down, both to suit the needs ofthe stage and the calmer mood of the author. Coincidence is law. It is the finger-point of Providence, the signal to man that hemust beware. Mystery is the gospel: the secret knitting of man toman, of fact to fact, deep beneath the surface of visible andaudible existence. Few writers could take us into such a realm ofprobable impossibilities and possible improbabilities withoutlosing all claim to serious consideration. If Strindberg has thusventured to our gain and no loss of his own, his success can beexplained only by the presence in the play of that second, parallel current of thought and feeling. 

This deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the surface isfantastic. It is the manifestation of that "rock-firm Certitude"to which I have already referred. And nothing will bring us nearerto it than Strindberg's own confession of faith, given in his"Speeches to the Swedish Nation" two years ago. In that pamphletthere is a chapter headed "Religion, " in which occurs thispassage: "Since 1896 I have been calling myself a Christian. I amnot a Catholic, and have never been, but during a stay of sevenyears in Catholic countries and among Catholic relatives, Idiscovered that the difference between Catholic and Protestanttenets is either none at all, or else wholly superficial, and thatthe division which once occurred was merely political or elseconcerned with theological problems not fundamentally germane tothe religion itself. A registered Protestant I am and will remain, but I can hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but comenearest to being a Swedenborgian. I use my Bible Christianityinternally and privately to tame my somewhat decivilized nature--decivilised by that veterinary philosophy and animal science(Darwinism) in which, as student at the university, I was reared. And I assure my fellow-beings that they have no right to complainbecause, according to my ability, I practise the Christianteachings. For only through religion, or the hope of somethingbetter, and the recognition of the innermost meaning of life asthat of an ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it bepossible to bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation. "

Here, as elsewhere, it is made patent that Strindberg'sreligiosity always, on closer analysis, reduces itself tomorality. At bottom he is first and last, and has always been, amoralist--a man passionately craving to know what is RIGHT and todo it. During the middle, naturalistic period of his creativecareer, this fundamental tendency was in part obscured, and heengaged in the game of intellectual curiosity known as "truth fortruth's own sake. " One of the chief marks of his final andmystical period is his greater courage to "be himself" in thisrespect--and this means necessarily a return, or an advance, to aposition which the late William James undoubtedly would haveacknowledged as "pragmatic. " To combat the assertion of over-developed individualism that we are ends in ourselves, that wehave certain inalienable personal "rights" to pleasure andhappiness merely because we happen to appear here in human shape, this is one of Strindberg's most ardent aims in all his laterworks. 

As to the higher and more inclusive object to which our lives mustbe held subservient, he is not dogmatic. It may be another life. He calls it God. And the code of service he finds in the tenets ofall the Christian churches, but principally in the Commandments. The plain and primitive virtues, the faith that implies littlemore than square dealing between man and man--these figureforemost in Strindberg's ideals. In an age of supreme self-seekinglike ours, such an outlook would seem to have small chance ofpopularity, but that it embodies just what the time most needs is, perhaps, made evident by the reception which the public almostinvariably grants "There Are Crimes and Crimes" when it is staged. 

With all its apparent disregard of what is commonly calledrealism, and with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use ofmethods generally held superseded--such as the casual introductionof characters at whatever moment they happen to be needed on thestage--it has, from the start, been among the most frequentlyplayed and most enthusiastically received of Strindberg's laterdramas. At Stockholm it was first taken up by the Royal DramaticTheatre, and was later seen on the tiny stage of the IntimateTheatre, then devoted exclusively to Strindberg's works. It wasone of the earliest plays staged by Reinhardt while he was stillexperimenting with his Little Theatre at Berlin, and it has alsobeen given in numerous German cities, as well as in Vienna. 

Concerning my own version of the play I wish to add a word ofexplanation. Strindberg has laid the scene in Paris. Not only thescenery, but the people and the circumstances are French. Yet hehas made no attempt whatever to make the dialogue reflect Frenchmanners of speaking or ways of thinking. As he has given it to us, the play is French only in its most superficial aspect, in itssetting--and this setting he has chosen simply because he needed acertain machinery offered him by the Catholic, but not by theProtestant, churches. The rest of the play is purely human in itsnote and wholly universal in its spirit. For this reason I haveretained the French names and titles, but have otherwise strivento bring everything as close as possible to our own modes ofexpression. Should apparent incongruities result from this mannerof treatment, I think they will disappear if only the reader willtry to remember that the characters of the play move in anexistence cunningly woven by the author out of scraps of ephemeralreality in order that he may show us the mirage of a more enduringone. 

THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES

A COMEDY

1899

CHARACTERS

 MAURICE, a playwright

 JEANNE, his mistress

 MARION, their daughter, five years old

 ADOLPHE, a painter

 HENRIETTE, his mistress

 EMILE, a workman, brother of Jeanne

 MADAME CATHERINE

 THE ABBE

 A WATCHMAN

 A HEAD WAITER

 A COMMISSAIRE

 TWO DETECTIVES

 A WAITER

 A GUARD

 A SERVANT GIRL

ACT I, SCENE 1. THE CEMETERY 2. THE CREMERIE

ACT II, SCENE 1. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS 2. THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE

ACT III, SCENE 1. THE CREMERIE 2. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS

ACT IV, SCENE 1. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 2. THE CREMERIE

(All the scenes are laid in Paris)

THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES

ACT I FIRST SCENE

(The upper avenue of cypresses in the Montparnasse Cemetery atParis. The background shows mortuary chapels, stone crosses onwhich are inscribed "O Crux! Ave Spes Unica!" and the ruins of awind-mill covered with ivy. )

(A well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and mutteringprayers in front of a grave decorated with flowers. )

(JEANNE is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody. )

(MARION is playing with some withered flowers picked from arubbish heap on the ground. )

(The ABBE is reading his breviary while walking along the furtherend of the avenue. )

WATCHMAN. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Look here, this is noplayground. 

JEANNE. [Submissively] I am only waiting for somebody who'll soonbe here--

WATCHMAN. All right, but you're not allowed to pick any flowers. 

JEANNE. [To MARION] Drop the flowers, dear. 

ABBE. [Comes forward and is saluted by the WATCHMAN] Can't thechild play with the flowers that have been thrown away?

WATCHMAN. The regulations don't permit anybody to touch even theflowers that have been thrown away, because it's believed they mayspread infection--which I don't know if it's true. 

ABBE. [To MARION] In that case we have to obey, of course. What'syour name, my little girl?

MARION. My name is Marion. 

ABBE. And who is your father?

(MARION begins to bite one of her fingers and does not answer. )

ABBE. Pardon my question, madame. I had no intention--I was justtalking to keep the little one quiet. 

(The WATCHMAN has gone out. )

JEANNE. I understood it, Reverend Father, and I wish you would saysomething to quiet me also. I feel very much disturbed afterhaving waited here two hours. 

ABBE. Two hours--for him! How these human beings torture eachother! O Crux! Ave spes unica!

JEANNE. What do they mean, those words you read all around here?

ABBE. They mean: O cross, our only hope!

JEANNE. Is it the only one?

ABBE. The only certain one. 

JEANNE. I shall soon believe that you are right, Father. 

ABBE. May I ask why?

JEANNE. You have already guessed it. When he lets the woman andthe child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the end is not faroff. 

ABBE. And when he has left you, what then?

JEANNE. Then we have to go into the river. 

ABBE. Oh, no, no!

JEANNE. Yes, yes!

MARION. Mamma, I want to go home, for I am hungry. 

JEANNE. Just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home. 

ABBE. Woe unto those who call evil good and good evil. 

JEANNE. What is that woman doing at the grave over there?

ABBE. She seems to be talking to the dead. 

JEANNE. But you cannot do that?

ABBE. She seems to know how. 

JEANNE. This would mean that the end of life is not the end of ourmisery?

ABBE. And you don't know it?

JEANNE. Where can I find out?

ABBE. Hm! The next time you feel as if you wanted to learn aboutthis well-known matter, you can look me up in Our Lady's Chapel atthe Church of St. Germain--Here comes the one you are waiting for, I guess. 

JEANNE. [Embarrassed] No, he is not the one, but I know him. 

ABBE. [To MARION] Good-bye, little Marion! May God take care ofyou! [Kisses the child and goes out] At St. Germain des Pres. 

EMILE. [Enters] Good morning, sister. What are you doing here?

JEANNE. I am waiting for Maurice. 

EMILE. Then I guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for I sawhim on the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast with somefriends. [Kissing the child] Good morning, Marion. 

JEANNE. Ladies also?

EMILE. Of course. But that doesn't mean anything. He writes plays, and his latest one has its first performance tonight. I suppose hehad with him some of the actresses. 

JEANNE. Did he recognise you?

EMILE. No, he doesn't know who I am, and it is just as well. Iknow my place as a workman, and I don't care for any condescensionfrom those that are above me. 

JEANNE. But if he leaves us without anything to live on?

EMILE. Well, you see, when it gets that far, then I suppose Ishall have to introduce myself. But you don't expect anything ofthe kind, do you--seeing that he is fond of you and very muchattached to the child?

JEANNE. I don't know, but I have a feeling that something dreadfulis in store for me. 

EMILE. Has he promised to marry you?

JEANNE. No, not promised exactly, but he has held out hopes. 

EMILE. Hopes, yes! Do you remember my words at the start: don'thope for anything, for those above us don't marry downward. 

JEANNE. But such things have happened. 

EMILE. Yes, they have happened. But, would you feel at home in hisworld? I can't believe it, for you wouldn't even understand whatthey were talking of. Now and then I take my meals where he iseating--out in the kitchen is my place, of course--and I don'tmake out a word of what they say. 

JEANNE. So you take your meals at that place?

EMILE. Yes, in the kitchen. 

JEANNE. And think of it, he has never asked me to come with him. 

EMILE. Well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he has somerespect for the mother of his child. The women over there are aqueer lot. 

JEANNE. Is that so?

EMILE. But Maurice never pays any attention to the women. There issomething SQUARE about that fellow. 

JEANNE. That's what I feel about him, too, but as soon as there isa woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer. 

EMILE. [Smiling] You don't tell me! But listen: are you hard upfor money?

JEANNE. No, nothing of that kind. 

EMILE. Well, then the worst hasn't come yet--Look! Over there!There he comes. And I'll leave you. Good-bye, little girl. 

JEANNE. Is he coming? Yes, that's him. 

EMILE. Don't make him mad now--with your jealousy, Jeanne! [Goesout. ]

JEANNE. No, I won't. 

(MAURICE enters. )

MARION. [Runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms] Papa, papa!

MAURICE. My little girl! [Greets JEANNE] Can you forgive me, Jeanne, that I have kept you waiting so long?

JEANNE. Of course I can. 

MAURICE. But say it in such a way that I can hear that you areforgiving me. 

JEANNE. Come here and let me whisper it to you. 

(MAURICE goes up close to her. )

(JEANNE kisses him on the cheek. )

MAURICE. I didn't hear. 

(JEANNE kisses him on the mouth. )

MAURICE. Now I heard! Well--you know, I suppose that this is theday that will settle my fate? My play is on for tonight, and thereis every chance that it will succeed--or fail. 

JEANNE. I'll make sure of success by praying for you. 

MAURICE. Thank you. If it doesn't help, it can at least do noharm--Look over there, down there in the valley, where the haze isthickest: there lies Paris. Today Paris doesn't know who Mauriceis, but it is going to know within twenty-four hours. The haze, which has kept me obscured for thirty years, will vanish before mybreath, and I shall become visible, I shall assume definite shapeand begin to be somebody. My enemies--which means all who wouldlike to do what I have done--will be writhing in pains that shallbe my pleasures, for they will be suffering all that I havesuffered. 

JEANNE. Don't talk that way, don't!

MAURICE. But that's the way it is. 

JEANNE. Yes, but don't speak of it--And then?

MAURICE. Then we are on firm ground, and then you and Marion willbear the name I have made famous. 

JEANNE. You love me then?

MAURICE. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps Marion alittle more. 

JEANNE. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not ofher. 

MAURICE. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward you?

JEANNE. I don't know, but I am afraid of something, afraid ofsomething terrible--

MAURICE. You are tired out and depressed by your long wait, whichonce more I ask you to forgive. What have you to be afraid of?

JEANNE. The unexpected: that which you may foresee without havingany particular reason to do so. 

MAURICE. But I foresee only success, and I have particular reasonsfor doing so: the keen instincts of the management and theirknowledge of the public, not to speak of their personalacquaintance with the critics. So now you must be in good spirits--

JEANNE. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an Abbe here awhile ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My faith--which youhaven't destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on awindow to clean it--I couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, butthis old man just passed his hand over the chalk, and the lightcame through, and it was possible again to see that the peoplewithin were at home--To-night I will pray for you at St. Germain. 

MAURICE. Now I am getting scared. 

JEANNE. Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. 

MAURICE. God? What is that? Who is he?

JEANNE. It was he who gave joy to your youth and strength to yourmanhood. And it is he who will carry us through the terrors thatlie ahead of us. 

MAURICE. What is lying ahead of us? What do you know? Where haveyou learned of this? This thing that I don't know?

JEANNE. I can't tell. I have dreamt nothing, seen nothing, heardnothing. But during these two dreadful hours I have experiencedsuch an infinity of pain that I am ready for the worst. 

MARION. Now I want to go home, mamma, for I am hungry. 

MAURICE. Yes, you'll go home now, my little darling. [Takes herinto his arms. ]

MARION. [Shrinking] Oh, you hurt me, papa!

JEANNE. Yes, we must get home for dinner. Good-bye then, Maurice. And good luck to you!

MAURICE. [To MARION] How did I hurt you? Doesn't my little girlknow that I always want to be nice to her?

MARION. If you are nice, you'll come home with us. 

MAURICE. [To JEANNE] When I hear the child talk like that, youknow, I feel as if I ought to do what she says. But then reasonand duty protest--Good-bye, my dear little girl! [He kisses thechild, who puts her arms around his neck. ]

JEANNE. When do we meet again?

MAURICE. We'll meet tomorrow, dear. And then we'll never partagain. 

JEANNE. [Embraces him] Never, never to part again! [She makes thesign of the cross on his forehead] May God protect you!

MAURICE. [Moved against his own will] My dear, beloved Jeanne!

(JEANNE and MARION go toward the right; MAURICE toward the left. Both turn around simultaneously and throw kisses at each other. )

MAURICE. [Comes back] Jeanne, I am ashamed of myself. I am alwaysforgetting you, and you are the last one to remind me of it. Hereare the tickets for tonight. 

JEANNE. Thank you, dear, but--you have to take up your post ofduty alone, and so I have to take up mine--with Marion. 

MAURICE. Your wisdom is as great as the goodness of your heart. Yes, I am sure no other woman would have sacrificed a pleasure toserve her husband--I must have my hands free tonight, and there isno place for women and children on the battle-field--and this youunderstood!

JEANNE. Don't think too highly of a poor woman like myself, andthen you'll have no illusions to lose. And now you'll see that Ican be as forgetful as you--I have bought you a tie and a pair ofgloves which I thought you might wear for my sake on your day ofhonour. 

MAURICE. [Kissing her hand] Thank you, dear. 

JEANNE. And then, Maurice, don't forget to have your hair fixed, as you do all the time. I want you to be good-looking, so thatothers will like you too. 

MAURICE. There is no jealousy in YOU!

JEANNE. Don't mention that word, for evil thoughts spring from it. 

MAURICE. Just now I feel as if I could give up this evening'svictory--for I am going to win--

JEANNE. Hush, hush!

MAURICE. And go home with you instead. 

JEANNE. But you mustn't do that! Go now: your destiny is waitingfor you. 

MAURICE. Good-bye then! And may that happen which must happen![Goes out. ]

JEANNE. [Alone with MARION] O Crux! Ave spes unica!

Curtain. 

SECOND SCENE

(The Cremerie. On the right stands a buffet, on which are placedan aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vegetables, fruit, preserves, etc. In the background is a door leading to thekitchen, where workmen are taking their meals. At the other end ofthe kitchen can be seen a door leading out to a garden. On theleft, in the background, stands a counter on a raised platform, and back of it are shelves containing all sorts of bottles. On theright, a long table with a marble top is placed along the wall, and another table is placed parallel to the first further out onthe floor. Straw-bottomed chairs stand around the tables. Thewalls are covered with oil-paintings. )

(MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter. )

(MAURICE stands leaning against it. He has his hat on and issmoking a cigarette. )

MME. CATHERINE. So it's tonight the great event comes off, Monsieur Maurice?

MAURICE. Yes, tonight. 

MME. CATHERINE. Do you feel upset?

MAURICE. Cool as a cucumber. 

MME. CATHERINE. Well, I wish you luck anyhow, and you havedeserved it, Monsieur Maurice, after having had to fight againstsuch difficulties as yours. 

MAURICE. Thank you, Madame Catherine. You have been very kind tome, and without your help I should probably have been down and outby this time. 

MME. CATHERINE. Don't let us talk of that now. I help along whereI see hard work and the right kind of will, but I don't want to beexploited--Can we trust you to come back here after the play andlet us drink a glass with you?

MAURICE. Yes, you can--of course, you can, as I have alreadypromised you. 

(HENRIETTE enters from the right. )

(MAURICE turns around, raises his hat, and stares at HENRIETTE, who looks him over carefully. )

HENRIETTE. Monsieur Adolphe is not here yet?

MME. CATHERINE. No, madame. But he'll soon be here now. Won't yousit down?

HENRIETTE. No, thank you, I'll rather wait for him outside. [Goesout. ]

MAURICE. Who--was--that?

MME. CATHERINE. Why, that's Monsieur Adolphe's friend. 

MAURICE. Was--that--her?

MME. CATHERINE. Have you never seen her before?

MAURICE. No, he has been hiding her from me, just as if he wasafraid I might take her away from him. 

MME. CATHERINE. Ha-ha!--Well, how did you think she looked?

MAURICE. How she looked? Let me see: I can't tell--I didn't seeher, for it was as if she had rushed straight into my arms at onceand come so close to me that I couldn't make out her features atall. And she left her impression on the air behind her. I canstill see her standing there. [He goes toward the door and makes agesture as if putting his arm around somebody] Whew! [He makes agesture as if he had pricked his finger] There are pins in herwaist. She is of the kind that stings!

MME. CATHERINE. Oh, you are crazy, you with your ladies!

MAURICE. Yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. But do you know, Madame Catherine, I am going before she comes back, or else, orelse--Oh, that woman is horrible!

MME. CATHERINE. Are you afraid?

MAURICE. Yes, I am afraid for myself, and also for some others. 

MME. CATHERINE. Well, go then. 

MAURICE. She seemed to suck herself out through the door, and inher wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me along--Yes, youmay laugh, but can't you see that the palm over there on thebuffet is still shaking? She's the very devil of a woman!

MME. CATHERINE. Oh, get out of here, man, before you lose all yourreason. 

MAURICE. I want to go, but I cannot--Do you believe in fate, Madame Catherine?

MME. CATHERINE. No, I believe in a good God, who protects usagainst evil powers if we ask Him in the right way. 

MAURICE. So there are evil powers after all! I think I can hearthem in the hallway now. 

MME. CATHERINE. Yes, her clothes rustle as when the clerk tearsoff a piece of linen for you. Get away now--through the kitchen. 

(MAURICE rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps intoEMILE. )

EMILE. I beg your pardon. [He retires the way he came. ]

ADOLPHE. [Comes in first; after him HENRIETTE] Why, there'sMaurice. How are you? Let me introduce this lady here to my oldestand best friend. Mademoiselle Henriette--Monsieur Maurice. 

MAURICE. [Saluting stiffly] Pleased to meet you. 

HENRIETTA. We have seen each other before. 

ADOLPHE. Is that so? When, if I may ask?

MAURICE. A moment ago. Right here. 

ADOLPHE. O-oh!--But now you must stay and have a chat with us. 

MAURICE. [After a glance at MME. CATHERINE] If I only had time. 

ADOLPHE. Take the time. And we won't be sitting here very long. 

HENRIETTE. I won't interrupt, if you have to talk business. 

MAURICE. The only business we have is so bad that we don't want totalk of it. 

HENRIETTE. Then we'll talk of something else. [Takes the hat awayfrom MAURICE and hangs it up] Now be nice, and let me becomeacquainted with the great author. 

MME. CATHERINE signals to MAURICE, who doesn't notice her. 

ADOLPHE. That's right, Henriette, you take charge of him. [Theyseat themselves at one of the tables. ]

HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] You certainly have a good friend inAdolphe, Monsieur Maurice. He never talks of anything but you, andin such a way that I feel myself rather thrown in the background. 

ADOLPHE. You don't say so! Well, Henriette on her side neverleaves me in peace about you, Maurice. She has read your works, and she is always wanting to know where you got this and wherethat. She has been questioning me about your looks, your age, yourtastes. I have, in a word, had you for breakfast, dinner, andsupper. It has almost seemed as if the three of us were livingtogether. 

MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Heavens, why didn't you come over here andhave a look at this wonder of wonders? Then your curiosity couldhave been satisfied in a trice. 

HENRIETTE. Adolphe didn't want it. 

(ADOLPHE looks embarrassed. )

HENRIETTE. Not that he was jealous--

MAURICE. And why should he be, when he knows that my feelings aretied up elsewhere?

HENRIETTE. Perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your feelings. 

MAURICE. I can't understand that, seeing that I am notorious formy constancy. 

ADOLPHE. Well, it wasn't that--

HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him] Perhaps that is because you have notfaced the fiery ordeal--

ADOLPHE. Oh, you don't know--

HENRIETTE. [Interrupting]--for the world has not yet beheld afaithful man. 

MAURICE. Then it's going to behold one. 

HENRIETTE. Where?

MAURICE. Here. 

(HENRIETTE laughs. )

ADOLPHE. Well, that's going it--

HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him and directing herself continuously toMAURICE] Do you think I ever trust my dear Adolphe more than amonth at a time?

MAURICE. I have no right to question your lack of confidence, butI can guarantee that Adolphe is faithful. 

HENRIETTE. You don't need to do so--my tongue is just running awaywith me, and I have to take back a lot--not only for fear offeeling less generous than you, but because it is the truth. It isa bad habit I have of only seeing the ugly side of things, and Ikeep it up although I know better. But if I had a chance to bewith you two for some time, then your company would make me goodonce more. Pardon me, Adolphe! [She puts her hand against hischeek. ]

ADOLPHE. You are always wrong in your talk and right in youractions. What you really think--that I don't know. 

HENRIETTE. Who does know that kind of thing?

MAURICE. Well, if we had to answer for our thoughts, who couldthen clear himself?

HENRIETTE. Do you also have evil thoughts?

MAURICE. Certainly; just as I commit the worst kind of crueltiesin my dreams. 

HENRIETTE. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course--Just think of it--No, I am ashamed of telling--

MAURICE. Go on, go on!

HENRIETTE. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissecting themuscles on Adolphe's breast--you see, I am a sculptor--and he, with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but helped me insteadwith the worst places, as he knows more anatomy than I. 

MAURICE. Was he dead?

HENRIETTE. No, he was living. 

MAURICE. But that's horrible! And didn't it make YOU suffer?

HENRIETTE. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for I amrather sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that so, Adolphe?

ADOLPHE. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact, and not theleast when animals are concerned. 

MAURICE. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous toward thesufferings both of myself and others. 

ADOLPHE. Now he is not telling the truth about himself. Or what doyou say, Madame Catherine?

MME. CATHERINE. I don't know of anybody with a softer heart thanMonsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the police because Ididn't give the goldfish fresh water--those over there on thebuffet. Just look at them: it is as if they could hear what I amsaying. 

MAURICE. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind ofpolite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned--Soyou are a sculptor, Mademoiselle Henriette?

HENRIETTE. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to do one ofyou--which has long been my cherished dream--I hold myself quitecapable. 

MAURICE. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be long in comingtrue. 

HENRIETTE. But I don't want to fix your features in my mind untilthis evening's success is over. Not until then will you havebecome what you should be. 

MAURICE. How sure you are of victory!

HENRIETTE. Yes, it is written on your face that you are going towin this battle, and I think you must feel that yourself. 

MAURICE. Why do you think so?

HENRIETTE. Because I can feel it. This morning I was ill, youknow, and now I am well. 

(ADOLPHE begins to look depressed. )

MAURICE. [Embarrassed] Listen, I have a single ticket left--onlyone. I place it at your disposal, Adolphe. 

ADOLPHE. Thank you, but I surrender it to Henriette. 

HENRIETTE. But that wouldn't do?

ADOLPHE. Why not? And I never go to the theatre anyhow, as Icannot stand the heat. 

HENRIETTE. But you will come and take us home at least after theshow is over. 

ADOLPHE. If you insist on it. Otherwise Maurice has to come backhere, where we shall all be waiting for him. 

MAURICE. You can just as well take the trouble of meeting us. Infact, I ask, I beg you to do so--And if you don't want to waitoutside the theatre, you can meet us at the Auberge des Adrets--That's settled then, isn't it?

ADOLPHE. Wait a little. You have a way of settling things to suityourself, before other people have a chance to consider them. 

MAURICE. What is there to consider--whether you are to see yourlady home or not?

ADOLPHE. You never know what may be involved in a simple act likethat, but I have a sort of premonition. 

HENRIETTE. Hush, hush, hush! Don't talk of spooks while the sun isshining. Let him come or not, as it pleases him. We can alwaysfind our way back here. 

ADOLPHE. [Rising] Well, now I have to leave you--model, you know. Good-bye, both of you. And good luck to you, Maurice. To-morrowyou will be out on the right side. Good-bye, Henriette. 

HENRIETTE. Do you really have to go?

ADOLPHE. I must. 

MAURICE. Good-bye then. We'll meet later. 

(ADOLPHE goes out, saluting MME. CATHERINE in passing. )

HENRIETTE. Think of it, that we should meet at last!

MAURICE. Do you find anything remarkable in that?

HENRIETTE. It looks as if it had to happen, for Adolphe has donehis best to prevent it. 

MAURICE. Has he?

HENRIETTE. Oh, you must have noticed it. 

MAURICE. I have noticed it, but why should you mention it?

HENRIETTE. I had to. 

MAURICE. No, and I don't have to tell you that I wanted to runaway through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting you and wasstopped by a guest who closed the door in front of me. 

HENRIETTE. Why do you tell me about it now?

MAURICE. I don't know. 

(MME. CATHERINE upsets a number of glasses and bottles. )

MAURICE. That's all right, Madame Catherine. There's nothing to beafraid of. 

HENRIETTE. Was that meant as a signal or a warning?

MAURICE. Probably both. 

HENRIETTE. Do they take me for a locomotive that has to haveflagmen ahead of it?

MAURICE. And switchmen! The danger is always greatest at theswitches. 

HENRIETTE. How nasty you can be!

MME. CATHERINE. Monsieur Maurice isn't nasty at all. So far nobodyhas been kinder than he to those that love him and trust in him. 

MAURICE. Sh, sh, sh!

HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] The old lady is rather impertinent. 

MAURICE. We can walk over to the boulevard, if you care to do so. 

HENRIETTE. With pleasure. This is not the place for me. I can justfeel their hatred clawing at me. [Goes out. ]

MAURICE. [Starts after her] Good-bye, Madame Catherine. 

MME. CATHERINE. A moment! May I speak a word to you, MonsieurMaurice?

MAURICE. [Stops unwillingly] What is it?

MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! Don't do it!

MAURICE. What?

MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it!

MAURICE. Don't be scared. This lady is not my kind, but sheinterests me. Or hardly that even. 

MME. CATHERINE, Don't trust yourself!

MAURICE. Yes, I do trust myself. Good-bye. [Goes out. ]

(Curtain. )

ACT II

FIRST SCENE

(The Auberge des Adrets: a cafe in sixteenth century style, with asuggestion of stage effect. Tables and easy-chairs are scatteredin corners and nooks. The walls are decorated with armour andweapons. Along the ledge of the wainscoting stand glasses andjugs. )

(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are in evening dress and sit facing eachother at a table on which stands a bottle of champagne and threefilled glasses. The third glass is placed at that side of thetable which is nearest the background, and there an easy-chair iskept ready for the still missing "third man. ")

MAURICE. [Puts his watch in front of himself on the table] If hedoesn't get here within the next five minutes, he isn't coming atall. And suppose in the meantime we drink with his ghost. [Touchesthe third glass with the rim of his own. ]

HENRIETTE. [Doing the same] Here's to you, Adolphe!

MAURICE. He won't come. 

HENRIETTE. He will come. 

MAURICE. He won't. 

HENRIETTE. He will. 

MAURICE. What an evening! What a wonderful day! I can hardly graspthat a new life has begun. Think only: the manager believes that Imay count on no less than one hundred thousand francs. I'll spendtwenty thousand on a villa outside the city. That leaves me eightythousand. I won't be able to take it all in until to-morrow, for Iam tired, tired, tired. [Sinks back into the chair] Have you everfelt really happy?

HENRIETTE. Never. How does it feel?

MAURICE. I don't quite know how to put it. I cannot express it, but I seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of my enemies. Itisn't nice, but that's the way it is. 

HENRIETTE. Is it happiness to be thinking of one's enemies?

MAURICE. Why, the victor has to count his killed and woundedenemies in order to gauge the extent of his victory. 

HENRIETTE. Are you as bloodthirsty as all that?

MAURICE. Perhaps not. But when you have felt the pressure of otherpeople's heels on your chest for years, it must be pleasant toshake off the enemy and draw a full breath at last. 

HENRIETTE. Don't you find it strange that yon are sitting here, alone with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown to you--and on an evening like this, when you ought to have a craving toshow yourself like a triumphant hero to all the people, on theboulevards, in the big restaurants?

MAURICE. Of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to behere, and your company is all I care for. 

HENRIETTE. You don't look very hilarious. 

MAURICE. No, I feel rather sad, and I should like to weep alittle. 

HENRIETTE. What is the meaning of that?

MAURICE. It is fortune conscious of its own nothingness andwaiting for misfortune to appear. 

HENRIETTE. Oh my, how sad! What is it you are missing anyhow?

MAURICE. I miss the only thing that gives value to life. 

HENRIETTE. So you love her no longer then?

MAURICE. Not in the way I understand love. Do you think she hasread my play, or that she wants to see it? Oh, she is so good, soself-sacrificing and considerate, but to go out with me for anight's fun she would regard as sinful. Once I treated her tochampagne, you know, and instead of feeling happy over it, shepicked up the wine list to see what it cost. And when she read theprice, she wept--wept because Marion was in need of new stockings. It is beautiful, of course: it is touching, if you please. But Ican get no pleasure out of it. And I do want a little pleasurebefore life runs out. So far I have had nothing but privation, butnow, now--life is beginning for me. [The clock strikes twelve] Nowbegins a new day, a new era!

HENRIETTE. Adolphe is not coming. 

MAURICE. No, now he won't, come. And now it is too late to go backto the Cremerie. 

HENRIETTE. But they are waiting for you. 

MAURICE. Let them wait. They have made me promise to come, and Itake back my promise. Are you longing to go there?

HENRIETTE. On the contrary!

MAURICE. Will you keep me company then?

HENRIETTE. With pleasure, if you care to have me. 

MAURICE. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is strange, youknow, that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't placeit at the feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless whenyou have not a woman. 

HENRIETTE. You don't need to be without a woman--you?

MAURICE. Well, that's the question. 

HENRIETTE. Don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hourof success and fame?

MAURICE. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience of it. 

HENRIETTE. You are a queer sort! At this moment, when you are themost envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood. Perhaps yourconscience is troubling you because you have neglected thatinvitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at themilk shop?

MAURICE. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, andeven here I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, their well-grounded anger. My comrades in distress had the rightto demand my presence this evening. The good Madame Catherine hada privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope wasto spread over the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded. And Ihave robbed them of their faith in me. I can hear the vows theyhave been making: "Maurice will come, for he is a good fellow; hedoesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his word. " Now Ihave made them forswear themselves. 

(While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begunto play the finale of Beethoven's Sonata in D-minor (Op. 31, No. 3). The allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and atlast passionately, violently, with complete abandon. )

MAURICE. Who can be playing at this time of the night?

HENRIETTE. Probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we. Butlisten! Your presentation of the case is not correct. Rememberthat Adolphe promised to meet us here. We waited for him, and hefailed to keep his promise. So that you are not to blame--

MAURICE. You think so? While you are speaking, I believe you, butwhen you stop, my conscience begins again. What have you in thatpackage?

HENRIETTE. Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to send upto the stage, but I had no chance to do so. Let me give it to younow--it is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. [She rises and crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him onthe forehead] Hail to the victor!

MAURICE. Don't!

HENRIETTE. [Kneeling] Hail to the King!

MAURICE. [Rising] No, now you scare me. 

HENRIETTE. You timid man! You of little faith who are afraid offortune even! Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned youinto a dwarf?

MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in theclouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge myweapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. You thinkthat my modesty shrinks before the victor's wreath. On thecontrary, I despise it: it is not enough for me. You think I amafraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits overthere and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which youdon't suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glassoff the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person--youabsent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. Youstayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourselfalready beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot, so I willcrush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple nolonger yours. 

HENRIETTE. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my hero!

MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithfulhelper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied?

HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it--I think youlove me, Maurice. 

MAURICE. Of course I do--Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man'scourage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where doyou lead me? I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when Iheard them speak of you. And when I saw you in the doorway, yoursoul poured itself into mine. And when you left, I could stillfeel your presence in my arms. I wanted to flee from you, butsomething held me back, and this evening we have been driventogether as the prey is driven into the hunter's net. Whose is thefault? Your friend's, who pandered for us!

HENRIETTE. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what doesit mean?--Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us togetherbefore. He is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, to which he had no right himself. I am jealous of him on yourbehalf. I hate him because he has cheated you out of yourmistress. I should like to blot him from the host of the living, and his memory with him--wipe him out of the past even, make himunmade, unborn!

MAURICE. Well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories. We'llcover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, andthen we'll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will neverlook up again. [Raising his glass] Our fate is sealed. Woe untous! What will come next?

HENRIETTE. Next comes the new era--What have you in that package?

MAURICE. I cannot remember. 

HENRIETTE. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair ofgloves] That tie is a fright! It must have cost at least fiftycentimes. 

MAURICE. [Snatching the things away from her] Don't you touchthem!

HENRIETTE. They are from her?

MAURICE. Yes, they are. 

HENRIETTE. Give them to me. 

MAURICE. No, she's better than we, better than everybody else. 

HENRIETTE. I don't believe it. She is simply stupider andstingier. One who weeps because you order champagne--

MAURICE. When the child was without stockings. Yes, she is a goodwoman. 

HENRIETTE. Philistine! You'll never be an artist. But I am anartist, and I'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's capinstead of the laurel wreath--Her name is Jeanne?

MAURICE. How do you know?

HENRIETTE. Why, that's the name of all housekeepers. 

MAURICE. Henriette!

(HENRIETTE takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into thefireplace. )

MAURICE. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women. You shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, then I'll send you packing. 

HENRIETTE. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to me?

MAURICE. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself away. ButI believe it must be those qualities which you have and I lack. Ibelieve that the evil within you draws me with the irresistiblelure of novelty. 

HENRIETTE. Have you ever committed a crime?

MAURICE. No real one. Have you?

HENRIETTE. Yes. 

MAURICE. Well, how did you find it?

HENRIETTE. It was greater than to perform a good deed, for by thatwe are placed on equality with others; it was greater than toperform some act of heroism, for by that we are raised aboveothers and rewarded. That crime placed me outside and beyond life, society, and my fellow-beings. Since then I am living only apartial life, a sort of dream life, and that's why reality nevergets a hold on me. 

MAURICE. What was it you did?

HENRIETTE. I won't tell, for then you would get scared again. 

MAURICE. Can you never be found out?

HENRIETTE. Never. But that does not prevent me from seeing, frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where thescaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never dare to open apack of cards, as I always turn up the five-spot of diamonds. 

MAURICE. Was it that kind of a crime?

HENRIETTE. Yes, it was that kind. 

MAURICE. Of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting. Have youno conscience?

HENRIETTE. None, but I should be grateful if you would talk ofsomething else. 

MAURICE. Suppose we talk of--love?

HENRIETTE. Of that you don't talk until it is over. 

MAURICE. Have you been in love with Adolphe?

HENRIETTE. I don't know. The goodness of his nature drew me likesome beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. Yet therewas much about his person that offended my eye, so that I had tospend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, before I could make a presentable figure of him. When he talked, Icould notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson wasoften badly digested and awkwardly applied. You can imagine thenhow miserable the copy must appear now, when I am permitted tostudy the original. That's why he was afraid of having us twomeet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his timewas up. 

MAURICE. Poor Adolphe!

HENRIETTE. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must besuffering beyond all bounds--

MAURICE. Sh! Somebody is coming. 

HENRIETTE. I wonder if it could be he?

MAURICE. That would be unbearable. 

HENRIETTE. No, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you thinkthe situation would have shaped itself?

MAURICE. At first he would have been a little sore at you becausehe had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried tofind us in several other cafes--but his soreness would havechanged into pleasure at finding us--and seeing that we had notdeceived him. And in the joy at having wronged us by hissuspicions, he would love both of us. And so it would make himhappy to notice that we had become such good friends. It hadalways been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dreamthat the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set theworld a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"Yes, Itrust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partlybecause your feelings are tied up elsewhere. "

HENRIETTE. Bravo! You must have been in a similar situationbefore, or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture of it. Do youknow that Adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannotenjoy his mistress without having his friend along?

MAURICE. That's why I had to be called in to entertain you--Hush!There is somebody outside--It must be he. 

HENRIETTE. No, don't you know these are the hours when ghostswalk, and then you can see so many things, and hear them also. Tokeep awake at night, when you ought to be sleeping, has for me thesame charm as a crime: it is to place oneself above and beyond thelaws of nature. 

MAURICE. But the punishment is fearful--I am shivering orquivering, with cold or with fear. 

HENRIETTE. [Wraps her opera cloak about him] Put this on. It willmake you warm. 

MAURICE. That's nice. It is as if I were inside of your skin, asif my body had been melted up by lack of sleep and were beingremoulded in your shape. I can feel the moulding process going on. But I am also growing a new soul, new thoughts, and here, whereyour bosom has left an impression, I can feel my own beginning tobulge. 

(During this entire scene, the pianist in the next room has beenpracticing the Sonata in D-minor, sometimes pianissimo, sometimeswildly fortissimo; now and then he has kept silent for a littlewhile, and at other times nothing has been heard but a part of thefinale: bars 96 to 107. )

MAURICE. What a monster, to sit there all night practicing on thepiano. It gives me a sick feeling. Do you know what I propose? Letus drive out to the Bois de Boulogne and take breakfast in thePavilion, and see the sun rise over the lakes. 

HENRIETTE. Bully!

MAURICE. But first of all I must arrange to have my mail and themorning papers sent out by messenger to the Pavilion. Tell me, Henriette: shall we invite Adolphe?

HENRIETTE. Oh, that's going too far! But why not? The ass can alsobe harnessed to the triumphal chariot. Let him come. [They getup. ]

MAURICE. [Taking off the cloak] Then I'll ring. 

HENRIETTE. Wait a moment! [Throws herself into his arms. ]

(Curtain. )

SECOND SCENE

(A large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the Bois deBoulogne. It is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-chairs, and divans. There are glass doors in the background, and besidethem windows overlooking the lakes. In the foreground a table isspread, with flowers in the centre, bowls full of fruit, wine indecanters, oysters on platters, many different kinds of wineglasses, and two lighted candelabra. On the right there is a roundtable full of newspapers and telegrams. )

(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are sitting opposite each other at thissmall table. )

(The sun is just rising outside. )

MAURICE. There is no longer any doubt about it. The newspaperstell me it is so, and these telegrams congratulate me on mysuccess. This is the beginning of a new life, and my fate iswedded to yours by this night, when you were the only one to sharemy hopes and my triumph. From your hand I received the laurel, andit seems to me as if everything had come from you. 

HENRIETTE. What a wonderful night! Have we been dreaming, or isthis something we have really lived through?

MAURICE. [Rising] And what a morning after such a night! I feel asif it were the world's first day that is now being illumined bythe rising sun. Only this minute was the earth created andstripped of those white films that are now floating off intospace. There lies the Garden of Eden in the rosy light of dawn, and here is the first human couple--Do you know, I am so happy Icould cry at the thought that all mankind is not equally happy--Doyou hear that distant murmur as of ocean waves beating against arocky shore, as of winds sweeping through a forest? Do you knowwhat it is? It is Paris whispering my name. Do you see the columnsof smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thousands?They are the fires burning on my altars, and if that be not so, then it must become so, for I will it. At this moment all thetelegraph instruments of Europe are clicking out my name. TheOriental Express is carrying the newspapers to the Far East, toward the rising sun; and the ocean steamers are carrying them tothe utmost West. The earth is mine, and for that reason it isbeautiful. Now I should like to have wings for us two, so that wemight rise from here and fly far, far away, before anybody cansoil my happiness, before envy has a chance to wake me out of mydream--for it is probably a dream!

HENRIETTE. [Holding out her hand to him] Here you can feel thatyou are not dreaming. 

MAURICE. It is not a dream, but it has been one. As a poor youngman, you know, when I was walking in the woods down there, andlooked up to this Pavilion, it looked to me like a fairy castle, and always my thoughts carried me up to this room, with thebalcony outside and the heavy curtains, as to a place of supremebliss. To be sitting here in company with a beloved woman and seethe sun rise while the candles were still burning in thecandelabra: that was the most audacious dream of my youth. Now ithas come true, and now I have no more to ask of life--Do you wantto die now, together with me?

HENRIETTE. No, you fool! Now I want to begin living. 

MAURICE. [Rising] To live: that is to suffer! Now comes reality. Ican hear his steps on the stairs. He is panting with alarm, andhis heart is beating with dread of having lost what it holds mostprecious. Can you believe me if I tell you that Adolphe is underthis roof? Within a minute he will be standing in the middle ofthis floor. 

HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] It was a stupid trick to ask him to comehere, and I am already regretting it--Well, we shall see anyhow ifyour forecast of the situation proves correct. 

MAURICE. Oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's feelings. 

(The HEAD WAITER enters with a card. )

MAURICE. Ask the gentleman to step in. [To HENRIETTE] I am afraidwe'll regret this. 

HENRIETTE. Too late to think of that now--Hush!

(ADOLPHE enters, pale and hollow-eyed. )

MAURICE. [Trying to speak unconcernedly] There you are! Whatbecame of you last night?

ADOLPHE. I looked for you at the Hotel des Arrets and waited awhole hour. 

MAURICE. So you went to the wrong place. We were waiting severalhours for you at the Auberge des Adrets, and we are still waitingfor you, as you see. 

ADOLPHE. [Relieved] Thank heaven!

HENRIETTE. Good morning, Adolphe. You are always expecting theworst and worrying yourself needlessly. I suppose you imaginedthat we wanted to avoid your company. And though you see that wesent for you, you are still thinking yourself superfluous. 

ADOLPHE. Pardon me: I was wrong, but the night was dreadful. 

(They sit down. Embarrassed silence follows. )

HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Well, are you not going to congratulateMaurice on his great success?

ADOLPHE. Oh, yes! Your success is the real thing, and envy itselfcannot deny it. Everything is giving way before you, and even Ihave a sense of my own smallness in your presence. 

MAURICE. Nonsense!--Henriette, are you not going to offer Adolphea glass of wine?

ADOLPHE. Thank you, not for me--nothing at all!

HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] What's the matter with you? Are you ill?

ADOLPHE. Not yet, but--

HENRIETTE. Your eyes--

ADOLPHE. What of them?

MAURICE. What happened at the Cremerie last night? I suppose theyare angry with me?

ADOLPHE. Nobody is angry with you, but your absence caused adepression which it hurt me to watch. But nobody was angry withyou, believe me. Your friends understood, and they regarded yourfailure to come with sympathetic forbearance. Madame Catherineherself defended you and proposed your health. We all rejoiced inyour success as if it had been our own. 

HENRIETTE. Well, those are nice people! What good friends youhave, Maurice. 

MAURICE. Yes, better than I deserve. 

ADOLPHE. Nobody has better friends than he deserves, and you are aman greatly blessed in his friends--Can't you feel how the air issoftened to-day by all the kind thoughts and wishes that streamtoward you from a thousand breasts?

(MAURICE rises in order to hide his emotion. )

ADOLPHE. From a thousand breasts that you have rid of thenightmare that had been crushing them during a lifetime. Humanityhad been slandered--and you have exonerated it: that's why menfeel grateful toward you. To-day they are once more holding theirheads high and saying: You see, we are a little better than ourreputation after all. And that thought makes them better. 

(HENRIETTE tries to hide her emotion. )

ADOLPHE. Am I in the way? Just let me warm myself a little in yoursunshine, Maurice, and then I'll go. 

MAURICE. Why should you go when you have only just arrived?

ADOLPHE. Why? Because I have seen what I need not have seen;because I know now that my hour is past. [Pause] That you sent forme, I take as an expression of thoughtfulness, a notice of whathas happened, a frankness that hurts less than deceit. You hearthat I think well of my fellow-beings, and this I have learnedfrom you, Maurice. [Pause] But, my friend, a few moments ago Ipassed through the Church of St. Germain, and there I saw a womanand a child. I am not wishing that you had seen them, for what hashappened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought or a word tothem before you set them adrift on the waters of the great city, then you could enjoy your happiness undisturbed. And now I bid yougood-by. 

HENRIETTE. Why must you go?

ADOLPHE. And you ask that? Do you want me to tell you?

HENRIETTE. No, I don't. 

ADOLPHE. Good-by then! [Goes out. ]

MAURICE. The Fall: and lo! "they knew that they were naked. "

HENRIETTE. What a difference between this scene and the one weimagined! He is better than we. 

MAURICE. It seems to me now as if all the rest were better thanwe. 

HENRIETTE. Do you see that the sun has vanished behind clouds, andthat the woods have lost their rose colour?

MAURICE. Yes, I see, and the blue lake has turned black. Let usflee to some place where the sky is always blue and the trees arealways green. 

HENRIETTE. Yes, let us--but without any farewells. 

MAURICE. No, with farewells. 

HENRIETTE. We were to fly. You spoke of wings--and your feet areof lead. I am not jealous, but if you go to say farewell and gettwo pairs of arms around your neck--then you can't tear yourselfaway. 

MAURICE. Perhaps you are right, but only one pair of little armsis needed to hold me fast. 

HENRIETTE. It is the child that holds you then, and not the woman?

MAURICE. It is the child. 

HENRIETTE. The child! Another woman's child! And for the sake ofit I am to suffer. Why must that child block the way where I wantto pass, and must pass?

MAURICE. Yes, why? It would be better if it had never existed. 

HENRIETTE. [Walks excitedly back and forth] Indeed! But now itdoes exist. Like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly in theground, immovable, so that it upsets the carriage. 

MAURICE. The triumphal chariot!--The ass is driven to death, butthe rock remains. Curse it! [Pause. ]

HENRIETTE. There is nothing to do. 

MAURICE. Yes, we must get married, and then our child will make usforget the other one. 

HENRIETTE. This will kill this!

MAURICE. Kill! What kind of word is that?

HENRIETTE. [Changing tone] Your child will kill our love. 

MAURICE. No, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in its way, but it will not be killed. 

HENRIETTE. [Opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece] Lookat it! Five-spot of diamonds--the scaffold! Can it be possiblethat our fates are determined in advance? That our thoughts areguided as if through pipes to the spot for which they are bound, without chance for us to stop them? But I don't want it, I don'twant it!--Do you realise that I must go to the scaffold if mycrime should be discovered?

MAURICE. Tell me about your crime. Now is the time for it. 

HENRIETTE. No, I should regret it afterward, and you would despiseme--no, no, no!--Have you ever heard that a person could be hatedto death? Well, my father incurred the hatred of my mother and mysisters, and he melted away like wax before a fire. Ugh! Let ustalk of something else. And, above all, let us get away. The airis poisoned here. To-morrow your laurels will be withered, thetriumph will be forgotten, and in a week another triumphant herowill hold the public attention. Away from here, to work for newvictories! But first of all, Maurice, you must embrace your childand provide for its immediate future. You don't have to see themother at all. 

MAURICE. Thank you! Your good heart does you honour, and I loveyou doubly when you show the kindness you generally hide. 

HENRIETTE. And then you go to the Cremerie and say good-by to theold lady and your friends. Leave no unsettled business behind tomake your mind heavy on our trip. 

MAURICE. I'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet at therailroad station. 

HENRIETTE. Agreed! And then: away from here--away toward the seaand the sun!

(Curtain. )

ACT III

FIRST SCENE

(In the Cremerie. The gas is lit. MME. CATHERINE is seated at thecounter, ADOLPHE at a table. )

MME. CATHERINE. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But you young onesare always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubberover it afterward. 

ADOLPHE. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I am as fond asever of both of them. But there is one thing that makes me sick atheart. You see, I thought more of Maurice than of anybody else; somuch that I wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give himpleasure--but now I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than theloss of her. I have lost both of them, and so my loneliness ismade doubly painful. And then there is still something else whichI have not yet been able to clear up. 

MME. CATHERINE. Don't brood so much. Work and divert yourself. Now, for instance, do you ever go to church?

ADOLPHE. What should I do there?

MME. CATHERINE. Oh, there's so much to look at, and then there isthe music. There is nothing commonplace about it, at least. 

ADOLPHE. Perhaps not. But I don't belong to that fold, I guess, for it never stirs me to any devotion. And then, Madame Catherine, faith is a gift, they tell me, and I haven't got it yet. 

MME. CATHERINE. Well, wait till you get it--But what is this Iheard a while ago? Is it true that you have sold a picture inLondon for a high price, and that you have got a medal?

ADOLPHE. Yes, it's true. 

MME. CATHERINE. Merciful heavens!--and not a word do you say aboutit?

ADOLPHE. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almostworthless to me at this moment. I am afraid of it as of a spectre:it brings disaster to speak of having seen it. 

MME. CATHERINE. You're a queer fellow, and that's what you havealways been. 

ADOLPHE. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune comein the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings outtrue friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour ofsuccess--You asked me if I ever went to church, and I answeredevasively. This morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germainwithout really knowing why I did so. It seemed as if I werelooking for somebody in there--somebody to whom I could silentlyoffer my gratitude. But I found nobody. Then I dropped a gold coinin the poor-box. It was all I could get out of my church-going, and that was rather commonplace, I should say. 

MME. CATHERINE. It was always something; and then it was fine tothink of the poor after having heard good news. 

ADOLPHE. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was something Idid because I couldn't help myself. But something more occurredwhile I was in the church. I saw Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, and her child. Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, theyseemed aware of the full extent of their misfortune. 

MME. CATHERINE. Well, children, I don't know in what kind of shapeyou keep your consciences. But how a decent fellow, a careful andconsiderate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden deserta woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain. 

ADOLPHE. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to understandit himself. I met them this morning, and everything appeared quitenatural to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagineanything else. It was as if they had been enjoying thesatisfaction of a good deed or the fulfilment of a sacred duty. There are things, Madame Catherine, that we cannot explain, andfor this reason it is not for us to judge. And besides, you sawhow it happened. Maurice felt the danger in the air. I foresaw itand tried to prevent their meeting. Maurice wanted to run awayfrom it, but nothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had beenlaid by some invisible power, and as if they had been driven byguile into each other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in thiscase, but I wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "notguilty. "

MME. CATHERINE. Well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that'swhat I call religion, ADOLPHE. Heavens, could it be that I am religious without knowingit. 

MME. CATHERINE. But then, to LET oneself be driven or tempted intoevil, as Monsieur Maurice has done, means weakness or badcharacter. And if you feel your strength failing you, then you askfor help, and then you get it. But he was too conceited to dothat--Who is this coming? The Abbe, I think. 

ADOLPHE. What does he want here?

ABBE. [Enters] Good evening, madame. Good evening, Monsieur. 

MME. CATHERINE. Can I be of any service?

ABBE. Has Monsieur Maurice, the author, been here to-day?

MME. CATHERINE. Not to-day. His play has just been put on, andthat is probably keeping him busy. 

ABBE. I have--sad news to bring him. Sad in several respects. 

MME. CATHERINE. May I ask of what kind?

ABBE. Yes, it's no secret. The daughter he had with that girl, Jeanne, is dead. 

MME. CATHERINE. Dead!

ADOLPHE. Marion dead!

ABBE. Yes, she died suddenly this morning without any previousillness. 

MME. CATHERINE. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways!

ABBE. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur Mauricelook after her, so we must try to find him. But first a questionin confidence: do you know whether Monsieur Maurice was fond ofthe child, or was indifferent to it?

MME. CATHERINE. If he was fond of Marion? Why, all of us know howhe loved her. 

ADOLPHE. There's no doubt about that. 

ABBE. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as Iam concerned. 

MME. CATHERINE. Has there been any doubt about it?

ABBE. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in theneighbourhood that he had abandoned the child and its mother inorder to go away with a strange woman. In a few hours this rumourhas grown into definite accusations, and at the same time thefeeling against him has risen to such a point that his life isthreatened and he is being called a murderer. 

MME. CATHERINE. Good God, what is THIS? What does it mean?

ABBE. Now I'll tell you my opinion--I am convinced that the man isinnocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about itas I do. But appearances are against Monsieur Maurice, and I thinkhe will find it rather hard to clear himself when the police cometo question him. 

ADOLPHE. Have the police got hold of the matter?

ABBE. Yea, the police have had to step in to protect him againstall those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. Probably theCommissaire will be here soon. 

MME. CATHERINE. [To ADOLPHE] There you see what happens when a mancannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when hetrifles with vice. God will punish!

ADOLPHE. Then he is more merciless than man. 

ABBE. What do you know about that?

ADOLPHE. Not very much, but I keep an eye on what happens--

ABBE. And you understand it also?

ADOLPHE. Not yet perhaps. 

ABBE. Let us look more closely at the matter--Oh, here comes theCommissaire. 

COMMISSAIRE. [Enters] Gentlemen--Madame Catherine--I have totrouble you for a moment with a few questions concerning MonsieurMaurice. As you have probably heard, he has become the object of ahideous rumour, which, by the by, I don't believe in. 

MME. CATHERINE. None of us believes in it either. 

COMMISSAIRE. That strengthens my own opinion, but for his own sakeI must give him a chance to defend himself. 

ABBE. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, although itmay come hard. 

COMMISSAIRE. Appearances are very much against him, but I haveseen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocencewas discovered. Let me tell you what there is against him. Thelittle girl, Marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretlyvisited by the father, who seems to have made sure of the timewhen the child was to be found alone. Fifteen minutes after hisvisit the mother returned home and found the child dead. All thismakes the position of the accused man very unpleasant--The post-mortem examination brought out no signs of violence or of poison, but the physicians admit the existence of new poisons that leaveno traces behind them. To me all this is mere coincidence of thekind I frequently come across. But here's something that looksworse. Last night Monsieur Maurice was seen at the Auberge desAdrets in company with a strange lady. According to the waiter, they were talking about crimes. The Place de Roquette and thescaffold were both mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for apair of lovers of good breeding and good social position! But eventhis may be passed over, as we know by experience that people whohave been drinking and losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to digup all the worst that lies at the bottom of their souls. Far moreserious is the evidence given by the head waiter as to theirchampagne breakfast in the Bois de Boulogne this morning. He saysthat he heard them wish the life out of a child. The man is saidto have remarked that, "It would be better if it had neverexisted. " To which the woman replied: "Indeed! But now it doesexist. " And as they went on talking, these words occurred: "Thiswill kill this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word isthat?" And also: "The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, thePlace de Roquette. " All this, you see, will be hard to get out of, and so will the foreign journey planned for this evening. Theseare serious matters. 

ADOLPHE. He is lost!

MME. CATHERINE. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't know what tobelieve. 

ABBE. This is not the work of man. God have mercy on him!

ADOLPHE. He is in the net, and he will never get out of it. 

MME. CATHERINE. He had no business to get in. 

ADOLPHE. Do you begin to suspect him also, Madame Catherine?

MME. CATHERINE. Yes and no. I have got beyond having an opinion inthis matter. Have you not seen angels turn into devils just as youturn your hand, and then become angels again?

COMMISSAIRE. It certainly does look queer. However, we'll have towait and hear what explanations he can give. No one will be judgedunheard. Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Madame Catherine. [Goes out. ]

ABBE. This is not the work of man. 

ADOLPHE. No, it looks as if demons had been at work for theundoing of man. 

ABBE. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is aterrible test. 

JEANNE. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening. Pardon me forasking, but have you seen Monsieur Maurice?

MME. CATHERINE. No, madame, but I think he may be here any minute. You haven't met him then since--

JEANNE. Not since this morning. 

MME. CATHERINE. Let me tell you that I share in your great sorrow. 

JEANNE. Thank you, madame. [To the ABBE] So you are here, Father. 

ABBE. Yes, my child. I thought I might be of some use to you. Andit was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to theCommissaire. 

JEANNE. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice also, does he?

ABBE. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But appearances areagainst him in a most appalling manner. 

JEANNE. You mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--itmeans nothing to me, who has heard such things before when Mauricehad had a few drinks. Then it is his custom to speculate on crimesand their punishment. Besides it seems to have been the woman inhis company who dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should liketo have a look into that woman's eyes. 

ADOLPHE. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman mayhave done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, shehad no intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of hernature. I know her to be a good soul and one who can very wellbear being looked straight in the eye. 

JEANNE. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has great value tome, and I believe what you say. It means that I cannot holdanybody but myself responsible for what has happened. It is mycarelessness that is now being punished. [She begins to cry. ]

ABBE. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and the seriousspirit in which you have regarded your motherhood. That yourassumption of this responsibility had not been sanctioned byreligion and the civil law was not your fault. No, we are herefacing something quite different. 

ADOLPHE. What then?

ABBE. Who can tell?

(HENRIETTE enters, dressed in travelling suit. )

ADOLPHE. [Rises with an air of determination and goes to meetHENRIETTE] You here?

HENRIETTE. Yes, where is Maurice?

ADOLPHE. Do you know--or don't you?

HENRIETTE. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame Catherine, but Iwas ready to start and absolutely had to step in here a moment. [To ADOLPHE] Who is that woman?--Oh!

(HENRIETTE and JEANNE stare at each other. )

(EMILE appears in the kitchen door. )

HENRIETTE. [To JEANNE] I ought to say something, but it mattersvery little, for anything I can say must sound like an insult or amockery. But if I ask you simply to believe that I share your deepsorrow as much as anybody standing closer to you, then you mustnot turn away from me. You mustn't, for I deserve your pity if notyour forbearance. [Holds out her hand. ]

JEANNE. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now--and in the nextmoment I don't. [Takes HENRIETTE'S hand. ]

HENRIETTE. [Kisses JEANNE'S hand] Thank you!

JEANNE. [Drawing back her hand] Oh, don't! I don't deserve it! Idon't deserve it!

ABBE. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems toprevail temporarily at least, won't you, Mademoiselle Henriette, shed some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surroundingthe main point of accusation? I ask you, as a friend amongfriends, to tell us what you meant with all that talk aboutkilling, and crime, and the Place de Roquette. That your words hadno connection with the death of the child, we have reason tobelieve, but it would give us added assurance to hear what youwere really talking about. Won't you tell us?

HENRIETTE. [After a pause] That I cannot tell! No, I cannot!

ADOLPHE. Henriette, do tell! Give us the word that will relieve usall. 

HENRIETTE. I cannot! Don't ask me!

ABBE. This is not the work of man!

HENRIETTE. Oh, that this moment had to come! And in this manner![To JEANNE] Madame, I swear that I am not guilty of your child'sdeath. Is that enough?

JEANNE. Enough for us, but not for Justice. 

HENRIETTE. Justice! If you knew how true your words are!

ABBE. [To HENRIETTE] And if you knew what you were saying justnow!

HENRIETTE. Do you know that better than I?

ABBE. Yes, I do. 

(HENRIETTE looks fixedly at the ABBE. )

ABBE. Have no fear, for even if I guess your secret, it will notbe exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human justice, buta great deal with divine mercy. 

MAURICE. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't lookat the others, who are standing in the background, but goesstraight up to the counter, where MME. CATHERINE is sitting. ] Youare not angry at me, Madame Catherine, because I didn't show up. Ihave come now to apologise to you before I start for the South ateight o'clock this evening. 

(MME. CATHERINE is too startled to say a word. )

MAURICE. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around] What does allthis mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of course, I can see thatit is all real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--There is Jeanne, looking like a statue and dressed in black--And Henriette lookinglike a corpse--What does it mean?

(All remain silent. )

MAURICE. Nobody answers. It must mean something dreadful. [Silence] But speak, please! Adolphe, you are my friend, what isit? [Pointing to EMILE] And there is a detective!

ADOLPHE. [Comes forward] You don't know then?

MAURICE. Nothing at all. But I must know!

ADOLPHE. Well, then--Marion is dead. 

MAURICE. Marion--dead?

ADOLPHE. Yes, she died this morning. 

MAURICE. [To JEANNE] So that's why you are in mourning. Jeanne, Jeanne, who has done this to us?

JEANNE. He who holds life and death in his hand. 

MAURICE. But I saw her looking well and happy this morning. Howdid it happen? Who did it? Somebody must have done it? [His eyesseek HENRIETTE. ]

ADOLPHE. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none tohe found. Unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion ina direction where none ought to exist. 

MAURICE. What direction is that?

ADOLPHE. Well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk lastnight and this morning has placed you in a light that is anythingbut favourable. 

MAURICE, So they were listening to us. Let me see, what were wesaying--I remember!--Then I am lost!

ADOLPHE. But if you explain your thoughtless words we will believeyou. 

MAURICE. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to prison, butit doesn't matter. Marion is dead! Dead! And I have killed her!

(General consternation. )

ADOLPHE. Think of what you are saying! Weigh your words! Do yourealise what you said just now?

MAURICE. What did I say?

ADOLPHE. You said that you had killed Marion. 

MAURICE. Is there a human being here who could believe me amurderer, and who could hold me capable of taking my own child'slife? You who know me, Madame Catherine, tell me: do you believe, can you believe--

MME. CATHERINE. I don't know any longer what to believe. What theheart thinketh the tongue speaketh. And your tongue has spokenevil words. 

MAURICE. She doesn't believe me!

ADOLPHE. But explain your words, man! Explain what you meant bysaying that "your love would kill everything that stood in itsway. "

MAURICE. So they know that too--Are you willing to explain it, Henriette?

HENRIETTE. No, I cannot do that. 

ABBE. There is something wrong behind all this and you have lostour sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have sworn that youwere innocent, and I wouldn't do that now. 

MAURICE. [To JEANNE] What you have to say means more to me thananything else. JEANNE. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who wasit you cursed during that orgie out there?

MAURICE. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am guilty, and yet Iam guiltless. Let me go away from here, for I am ashamed ofmyself, and I have done more wrong than I can forgive myself. 

HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Go with him and see that he doesn't dohimself any harm. 

ADOLPHE. Shall I--?

HENRIETTE. Who else?

ADOLPHE. [Without bitterness] You are nearest to it--Sh! Acarriage is stopping outside. 

MME. CATHERINE. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as I have seen oflife, I could never have believed that success and fame were suchshort-lived things. 

MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] From the triumphal chariot to the patrolwagon!

JEANNE. [Simply] And the ass--who was that?

ADOLPHE. Oh, that must have been me. 

COMMISSAIRE. [Enters with a paper in his hand] A summons to PoliceHeadquarters--to-night, at once--for Monsieur Maurice Gerard--andfor Mademoiselle Henrietta Mauclerc--both here?

MAURICE and HENRIETTE. Yes. 

MAURICE. Is this an arrest?

COMMISSAIRE. Not yet. Only a summons. 

MAURICE. And then?

COMMISSAIRE. We don't know yet. 

(MAURICE and HENRIETTE go toward the door. )

MAURICE. Good-bye to all!

(Everybody shows emotion. The COMMISSAIRE, MAURICE, and HENRIETTEgo out. )

EMILE. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Now I'll take you home, sister. 

JEANNE. And what do you think of all this?

EMILE. The man is innocent. 

ABBE. But as I see it, it is, and must always be, somethingdespicable to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonablewhen a woman and her child are involved. 

EMILE. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when itconcerns my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented fromthrowing the first stone because I have done the same thingmyself. 

ABBE. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am notthrowing any stones either, but the act condemns itself and ispunished by its consequences. 

JEANNE. Pray for him! For both of them!

ABBE. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinenceto want to change the counsels of the Lord. And what has happenedhere is, indeed, not the work of man. 

(Curtain. )

SECOND SCENE

(The Auberge des Adrets. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at thesame table where MAURICE and HENRIETTE were sitting in the secondact. A cup of coffee stands in front of ADOLPHE. HENRIETTE hasordered nothing. )

ADOLPHE. You believe then that he will come here?

HENRIETTE. I am sure. He was released this noon for lack ofevidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the streets beforeit was dark. 

ADOLPHE. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to mesince yesterday. 

HENRIETTE. And what about me? I am afraid to live, dare hardlybreathe, dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody isspying not only on my words but on my thoughts. 

ADOLPHE. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't findyou?

HENRIETTE. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from shame whenI think of it. Adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, stuff than he or I---

ADOLPHE. Sh, sh, sh!

HENRIETTE. Yes, indeed! And what was it that made me stay here? Iwas lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitchedme--I cannot explain it. But if you had come, it would never havehappened. And to-day you are great, and he is small--less than theleast of all. Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-dayhe has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. And publicopinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will bejudged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that seefarthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he wasresponsible for it anyhow. 

ADOLPHE. You know what my thoughts are in this matter, Henriette, but I should like to know that both of you are spotless. Won't youtell me what those dreadful words of yours meant? It cannot be achance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt solargely with killing and the scaffold. 

HENRIETTE. It was no chance. It was something that had to be said, something I cannot tell you--probably because I have no right toappear spotless in your eyes, seeing that I am not spotless. 

ADOLPHE. All this is beyond me. 

HENRIETTE. Let us talk of something else--Do you believe there aremany unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may evenbe our intimate friends?

ADOLPHE. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean?

HENRIETTE. Don't you believe that every human being at some timeor another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fallunder the law if it were discovered?

ADOLPHE. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act escapesbeing punished by one's own conscience at least. [Rises andunbuttons his coat] And--nobody is really good who has not erred. [Breathing heavily] For in order to know how to forgive, one musthave been in need of forgiveness--I had a friend whom we used toregard as a model man. He never spoke a hard word to anybody; heforgave everything and everybody; and he suffered insults with astrange satisfaction that we couldn't explain. At last, late inlife, he gave me his secret in a single word: I am a penitent! [Hesits down again. ]

(HENRIETTE remains silent, looking at him with surprise. )

ADOLPHE. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes notmentioned in the Criminal Code, and these are the worse ones, forthey have to be punished by ourselves, and no judge could be moresevere than we are against our own selves. 

HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did he findpeace?

ADOLPHE. After endless self-torture he reached a certain degree ofcomposure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. Henever dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared tofeel himself entitled to a kind word or even well-earned praise:in a word, he could never quite forgive himself. 

HENRIETTE. Never? What had he done then?

ADOLPHE. He had wished the life out of his father. And when hisfather suddenly died, the son imagined himself to have killed him. Those imaginations were regarded as signs of some mental disease, and he was sent to an asylum. From this he was discharged after atime as wholly recovered--as they put it. But the sense of guiltremained with him, and so he continued to punish himself for hisevil thoughts. 

HENRIETTE. Are you sure the evil will cannot kill?

ADOLPHE. You mean in some mystic way?

HENRIETTE. As you please. Let it go at mystic. In my own family--Iam sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with theirhatred. You see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all ourtastes and inclinations. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, hetried to root it out. In that way he aroused a resistance thataccumulated until it became like an electrical battery chargedwith hatred. At last it grew so powerful that he languished away, became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the end, came towish himself dead. 

ADOLPHE. And your conscience never troubled you?

HENRIETTE. No, and furthermore, I don't know what conscience is. 

ADOLPHE. You don't? Well, then you'll soon learn. [Pause] How doyou believe Maurice will look when he gets here? What do you thinkhe will say?

HENRIETTE. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make thesame kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you. 

ADOLPHE. Well?

HENRIETTE. We guessed entirely wrong. 

ADOLPHE. Can you tell me why you sent for me?

HENRIETTE. Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty!

ADOLPHE. How strange it is that you can admit your faults and yetnot repent of them. 

HENRIETTE. It must be because I don't feel quite responsible forthem. They are like the dirt left behind by things handled duringthe day and washed off at night. But tell me one thing: do youreally think so highly of humanity as you profess to do?

ADOLPHE. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation--and alittle worse. 

HENRIETTE. That is not a straightforward answer. 

ADOLPHE. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me franklywhen I ask you: do you still love Maurice?

HENRIETTE. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this moment Ifeel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well livewithout him. 

ADOLPHE. It's likely you could, but I fear you have become chainedto his fate--Sh! Here he comes. 

HENRIETTE. How everything repeats itself. The situation is thesame, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting youyesterday. 

MAURICE. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, my dear friends, if this be me. For that last night in a cellchanged me into a new sort of being. [Notices HENRIETTE andADOLPHE. ]

ADOLPHE. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talkthings over. 

MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Perhaps I am in the way?

ADOLPHE. Now, don't get bitter. 

MAURICE. I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, andsuspicious also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself. And whowants to keep company with a murderer?

HENRIETTE. But you have been cleared of the charge. 

MAURICE. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but not bypublic opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice Gerard, once aplaywright, and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc--

HENRIETTE. O my mother and my sisters--my mother! Jesus havemercy!

MAURICE. And can you see that I actually look like a murderer? Andthen it is suggested that my play was stolen. So there isn't avestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of myown, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, andhe is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon, Solon! Such is fortune, and such is fame! You are fortunate, Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded. 

HENRIETTE. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a great successin London and carried off the first prize?

MAURICE. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true, Adolphe?

ADOLPHE. It is true, but I have returned the prize. 

HENRIETTE. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you are alsoprevented from accepting any distinctions--like your friend?

ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes!

MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us stillfarther apart. 

ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonelywith my success as you with your adversity. Think of it--thatpeople feel hurt by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly to be alive!

MAURICE. You say that! What am I then to say? It is as if my eyeshad been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shapeof all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the roomI saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise bothof you, of course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here andsearch for words because I don't know what to say to you. I oughtto defend myself, but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for itprotected me, at least, against the curious glances that passright through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress! You don'tlove me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I care for you. To-day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive. 

(Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at atable in the background. )

ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That youhave been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear insome of the evening papers. And that puts an end to the wholematter. Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to theworst, you can write a new one. Leave Paris for a year and leteverything become forgotten. You who have exonerated mankind willbe exonerated yourself. 

MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha!

ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, ifI ever did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner oflooking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. WhenI, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, whatmust then be the wretchedness of the rest?

ADOLPHE. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers, and thenwe'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a differentway. 

MAURICE. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!--It meansthat I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myselfaway by careless talking. 

ADOLPHE. Those are not detectives. That's only your imagination. Irecognise both of them. [Goes toward the door. ]

MAURICE. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that Henriette andI may come to open explanations. 

ADOLPHE. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your future. Tryto keep him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in a moment. [Goesout. ]

HENRIETTE. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of our guilt orguiltlessness?

MAURICE. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a lot ofnonsense while I was drunk. But it is your crime that comes back, and that crime you have grafted on to me. 

HENRIETTE. Oh, that's the tone you talk in now!--Was it not youwho cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, andwanted to go away without saying good-bye to anybody? And was itnot I who made you visit Marion and show yourself to MadameCatherine?

MAURICE. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved yourself morehuman than I, and the guilt is wholly my own. Forgive me! But allthe same I am without guilt. Who has tied this net from which Ican never free myself? Guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yetguilty! Oh, it is driving me mad--Look, now they sit over thereand listen to us--And no waiter comes to take our order. I'll goout and order a cup of tea. Do you want anything?

HENRIETTE. Nothing. 

(MAURICE goes out. )

FIRST DETECTIVE. [Goes up to HENRIETTE] Let me look at yourpapers. 

HENRIETTE. How dare you speak to me?

DETECTIVE. Dare? I'll show you!

HENRIETTE. What do you mean?

DETECTIVE. It's my job to keep an eye on street-walkers. Yesterdayyou came here with one man, and today with another. That's as goodas walking the streets. And unescorted ladies don't get anythinghere. So you'd better get out and come along with me. 

HENRIETTE. My escort will be back in a moment. 

DETECTIVE. Yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got--the kindthat doesn't help a girl a bit!

HENRIETTE. O God! My mother, my sisters!--I am of good family, Itell you. 

DETECTIVE. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you are too wellknown through the papers. Come along!

HENRIETTE. Where? What do you mean?

DETECTIVE. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll get a nicelittle card and a license that brings you free medical care. 

HENRIETTE. O Lord Jesus, you don't mean it!

DETECTIVE. [Grabbing HENRIETTE by the arm] Don't I mean it?

HENRIETTE. [Falling on her knees] Save me, Maurice! Help!

DETECTIVE. Shut up, you fool!

(MAURICE enters, followed by WAITER. )

WAITER. Gentlemen of that kind are not served here. You just payand get out! And take the girl along!

MAURICE. [Crushed, searches his pocket-book for money] Henriette, pay for me, and let us get away from this place. I haven't a souleft. 

WAITER. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse! Alphonse! Doyou know what that is?

HENRIETTE. [Looking through her pocket-book] Oh, merciful heavens!I have no money either!--Why doesn't Adolphe come back?

DETECTIVE. Well, did you ever see such rotters! Get out of here, and put up something as security. That kind of ladies generallyhave their fingers full of rings. 

MAURICE. Can it be possible that we have sunk so low?

HENRIETTE. [Takes off a ring and hands it to the WAITER] The Abbewas right: this is not the work of man. 

MAURICE. No, it's the devil's!--But if we leave before Adolphereturns, he will think that we have deceived him and run away. 

HENRIETTE. That would be in keeping with the rest--But we'll gointo the river now, won't we?

MAURICE. [Takes HENRIETTE by the hand as they walk out together]Into the river--yes!

(Curtain. )

ACT IV

FIRST SCENE

(In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve. The windis shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, andpieces of paper from the ground. )

(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are seated on a bench. )

HENRIETTE. So you don't want to die?

MAURICE. No, I am afraid. I imagine that I am going to be verycold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and afew shavings to lie on. And besides that, it seems to me as ifthere were still some task waiting for me, but I cannot make outwhat it is. 

HENRIETTE. But I can guess what it is. 

MAURICE. Tell me. 

HENRIETTE. It is revenge. You, like me, must have suspected Jeanneand Emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. Such arevenge on a rival none but a woman could devise. 

MAURICE. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell you that mysuspicions go even further. It seems as if my sufferings duringthese last few days had sharpened my wits. Can you explain, forinstance, why the waiter from the Auberge des Adrets and the headwaiter from the Pavilion were not called to testify at thehearing?

HENRIETTE. I never thought of it before. But now I know why. Theyhad nothing to tell, because they had not been listening. 

MAURICE. But how could the Commissaire then know what we had beensaying?

HENRIETTE. He didn't know, but he figured it out. He was guessing, and he guessed right. Perhaps he had had to deal with some similarcase before. 

MAURICE. Or else he concluded from our looks what we had beensaying. There are those who can read other people's thoughts--Adolphe being the dupe, it seemed quite natural that we shouldhave called him an ass. It's the rule, I understand, although it'svaried at times by the use of "idiot" instead. But ass was nearerat hand in this case, as we had been talking of carriages andtriumphal chariots. It is quite simple to figure out a fourthfact, when you have three known ones to start from. 

HENRIETTE. Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in socompletely. 

MAURICE. That's the result of thinking too well of one's fellowbeings. This is all you get out of it. But do you know, _I_suspect somebody else back of the Commissaire, who, by-the-bye, must be a full-fledged scoundrel. 

HENRIETTE. You mean the Abbe, who was taking the part of a privatedetective. 

MAURICE. That's what I mean. That man has to receive all kinds ofconfessions. And note you: Adolphe himself told us he had been atthe Church of St. Germain that morning. What was he doing there?He was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. And then thepriest put the questions together for the Commissaire. 

HENRIETTE. Tell me something: do you trust Adolphe?

MAURICE. I trust no human being any longer. 

HENRIETTE. Not even Adolphe?

MAURICE. Him least of all. How could I trust an enemy--a man fromwhom I have taken away his mistress?

HENRIETTE. Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I'llgive you some data about our friend. You heard he had returnedthat medal from London. Do you know his reason for doing so?

MAURICE. No. 

HENRIETTE. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken apenitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction. 

MAURICE. Can that he possible? But what has he done?

HENRIETTE. He has committed a crime of the kind that is notpunishable under the law. That's what he gave me to understandindirectly. 

MAURICE. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model man, whonever speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything. 

HENRIETTE. Well, there you can see that we are no worse thanothers. And yet we are being hounded day and night as if devilswere after us. 

MAURICE. He, also! Then mankind has not been slandered--But if hehas been capable of ONE crime, then you may expect anything ofhim. Perhaps it was he who sent the police after you yesterday. Coming to think of it now, it was he who sneaked away from us whenhe saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insistedthat those fellows were not detectives. But, of course, you mayexpect anything from a deceived lover. 

HENRIETTE. Could he be as mean as that? No, it is impossible, impossible!

MAURICE. Why so? If he is a scoundrel?--What were you two talkingof yesterday, before I came?

HENRIETTE. He had nothing but good to say of you. 

MAURICE. That's a lie!

HENRIETTE. [Controlling herself and changing her tone] Listen. There is one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever--for what reason, I don't know. Have you thought of MadameCatherine's wavering attitude in this matter? Didn't she sayfinally that she believed you capable of anything?

MAURICE. Yes, she did, and that shows what kind of person she is. To think evil of other people without reason, you must be avillain yourself. 

(HENRIETTE looks hard at him. Pause. )

HENRIETTE. To think evil of others, you must be a villainyourself. 

MAURICE. What do you mean?

HENRIETTE. What I said. 

MAURICE. Do you mean that I--?

HENRIETTE. Yes, that's what I mean now! Look here! Did you meetanybody but Marion when you called there yesterday morning?

MAURICE. Why do you ask?

HENRIETTE. Guess!

MAURICE. Well, as you seem to know--I met Jeanne, too. 

HENRIETTE. Why did you lie to me?

MAURICE. I wanted to spare you. 

HENRIETTE. And now you want me to believe in one who has beenlying to me? No, my boy, now I believe you guilty of that murder. 

MAURICE. Wait a moment! We have now reached the place for which mythoughts have been heading all the time, though I resisted as longas possible. It's queer that what lies next to one is seen last ofall, and what one doesn't WANT to believe cannot be believed--Tellme something: where did you go yesterday morning, after we partedin the Bois?

HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] Why?

MAURICE. You went either to Adolphe--which you couldn't do, as hewas attending a lesson--or you went to--Marion!

HENRIETTE. Now I am convinced that you are the murderer. 

MAURICE. And I, that you are the murderess! You alone had aninterest in getting the child out of the way--to get rid of therock on the road, as you so aptly put it. 

HENRIETTE. It was you who said that. 

MAURICE. And the one who had an interest in it must have committedthe crime. 

HENRIETTE. Now, Maurice, we have been running around and around inthis tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us quit before we getto the point of sheer madness. 

MAURICE. You have reached that point already. 

HENRIETTE. Don't you think it's time for us to part, before wedrive each other insane?

MAURICE. Yes, I think so. 

HENRIETTE. [Rising] Good-bye then!

(Two men in civilian clothes become visible in the background. )

HENRIETTE. [Turns and comes back to MAURICE] There they are again!

MAURICE. The dark angels that want to drive us out of the garden. 

HENRIETTE. And force us back upon each other as if we were chainedtogether. 

MAURICE. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. Are wereally to marry? To settle down in the same place? To be able toclose the door behind us and perhaps get peace at last?

HENRIETTE. And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other todeath; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriageportion; you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and Igetting back at you with Jeanne--and Marion. 

MAURICE. Never mention the name of Marion again! Don't you knowthat she was to be buried today--at this very moment perhaps?

HENRIETTE. And you are not there? What does that mean?

MAURICE. It means that both Jeanne and the police have warned meagainst the rage of the people. 

HENRIETTE. A coward, too?

MAURICE. All the vices! How could you ever have cared for me?

HENRIETTE. Because two days ago you were another person, wellworthy of being loved---

MAURICE. And now sunk to such a depth!

HENRIETTE. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt badqualities which are not your own. 

MAURICE. But yours?

HENRIETTE. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feelmyself at once a little better. 

MAURICE. It's like passing on a disease to save one's self-respect. 

HENRIETTE. And how vulgar you have become, too!

MAURICE. Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise myselfsince that night in the cell. They put in one person and let outanother through that gate which separates us from the rest ofsociety. And now I feel myself the enemy of all mankind: I shouldlike to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothingless than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour. 

HENRIETTE. I had a letter from my mother today. She is the widowof a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas ofhonour and that kind of thing. Do you want to read the letter? No, you don't!--Do you know that I am an outcast? My respectableacquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if I showmyself on the streets alone the police will take me. Do yourealise now that we have to get married?

MAURICE. We despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that ishell pure and simple! But, Henriette, before we unite ourdestinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on moreequal terms. 

HENRIETTE. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who got intotrouble--you understand. I wanted to help her, as her whole futurewas at stake--and she died!

MAURICE. That was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, too. 

HENRIETTE. You say so now, but the next time you lose your temperyou will accuse me of it. 

MAURICE. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has shaken myfaith in you and that it makes me afraid of you. Tell me, is herlover still alive, and does he know to what extent you wereresponsible?

HENRIETTE. He was as guilty as I. 

MAURICE. And if his conscience should begin to trouble him--suchthings do happen--and if he should feel inclined to confess: thenyou would be lost. 

HENRIETTE. I know it, and it is this constant dread which has mademe rush from one dissipation to another--so that I should neverhave time to wake up to full consciousness. 

MAURICE. And now you want me to take my marriage portion out ofyour dread. That's asking a little too much. 

HENRIETTE. But when I shared the shame of Maurice the murderer---

MAURICE. Oh, let's come to an end with it!

HENRIETTE. No, the end is not yet, and I'll not let go my holduntil I have put you where you belong. For you can't go aroundthinking yourself better than I am. 

MAURICE. So you want to fight me then? All right, as you please!

HENRIETTE. A fight on life and death!

(The rolling of drums is heard in the distance. )

MAURICE. The garden is to be closed. "Cursed is the ground for thysake; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee. "

HENRIETTE. "And the Lord God said unto the woman---"

A GUARD. [In uniform, speaking very politely] Sorry, but thegarden has to be closed. 

(Curtain. )

SECOND SCENE

(The Cremerie. MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter makingentries into an account book. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated ata table. )

ADOLPHE. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final assurancethat I didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, I thought youhad played me false, this ought to convince you. 

HENRIETTE. But why did you fool us by saying that those fellowswere not policemen?

ADOLPHE. I didn't think myself that they were, and then I wantedto reassure you. 

HENRIETTE. When you say it, I believe you. But then you must alsobelieve me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts to you. 

ADOLPHE. Go on. 

HENRIETTE. But you mustn't come back with your usual talk offancies and delusions. 

ADOLPHE. You seem to have reason to fear that I may. 

HENRIETTE. I fear nothing, but I know you and your scepticism--Well, and then you mustn't tell this to anybody--promise me!

ADOLPHE. I promise. 

HENRIETTE. Now think of it, although I must say it's somethingterrible: I have partial evidence that Maurice is guilty, or atleast, I have reasonable suspicions---

ADOLPHE. You don't mean it!

HENRIETTE. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Maurice left me inthe Bois, he said he was going to see Marion alone, as the motherwas out. And now I have discovered afterward that he did meet themother. So that he has been lying to me. 

ADOLPHE. That's possible, and his motive for doing so may havebeen the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he isguilty of a murder?

HENRIETTE. Can't you see that?--Don't you understand?

ADOLPHE. Not at all. 

HENRIETTE. Because you don't want to!--Then there is nothing leftfor me but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove analibi. 

ADOLPHE. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You, like he, have reached the border line of--insanity. The demons of distrusthave got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense ofpartial guilt to wound the other with. Let me see if I can make astraight guess: he has also come to suspect you of killing hischild?

HENRIETTE. Yes, he's mad enough to do so. 

ADOLPHE. You call his suspicions mad, but not your own. 

HENRIETTE. You have first to prove the contrary, or that I suspecthim unjustly. 

ADOLPHE. Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved that Mariondied of a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannotrecall just now. 

HENRIETTE. Is it true?

ADOLPHE. The official report is printed in today's paper. 

HENRIETTE. I don't take any stock in it. They can make up thatkind of thing. 

ADOLPHE. Beware, Henriette--or you may, without knowing it, passacross that border line. Beware especially of throwing outaccusations that may put you into prison. Beware! [He places hishand on her head] You hate Maurice?

HENRIETTE. Beyond all bounds!

ADOLPHE. When love turns into hatred, it means that it was taintedfrom the start. 

HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell me, you whoare the only one that understands me. 

ADOLPHE. But you don't want any sermons. 

HENRIETTE. Have you nothing else to offer me?

ADOLPHE. Nothing else. But they have helped me. 

HENRIETTE. Preach away then!

ADOLPHE. Try to turn your hatred against yourself. Put the knifeto the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that YOUR troubleroots. 

HENRIETTE. Explain yourself. 

ADOLPHE. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurseyour qualms of conscience together. Break off your career as anartist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving forfreedom and fun--as they call it. And you have seen now how muchfun there is in it. Then go home to your mother. 

HENRIETTE. Never!

ADOLPHE. Some other place then. 

HENRIETTE. I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed yoursecret and why you wouldn't accept the prize?

ADOLPHE. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-toldstory. 

HENRIETTE. Well--what did you do to get peace?

ADOLPHE. What I have suggested: I became conscious of my guilt, repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my lifelike that of a penitent. 

HENRIETTE. How can you repent when, like me, you have noconscience? Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faithis?

ADOLPHE. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless youseek it--Seek!

(HENRIETTE remains silent. )

ADOLPHE. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you mayharden yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable. 

HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punishment?

ADOLPHE. No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by themisdeeds of our lower selves. 

HENRIETTE. Then I must have a conscience also?

ADOLPHE. Of course you have, but--

HENRIETTE, Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call religious?

ADOLPHE. Not the least bit. 

HENRIETTE. It's all so queer--What is religion?

ADOLPHE. Frankly speaking, I don't know! And I don't think anybodyelse can tell you. Sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, for nobody becomes religious without having a bad conscience. 

HENRIETTE. Yes, it is a punishment. Now I know what to do. Good-bye, Adolphe!

ADOLPHE. You'll go away from here?

HENRIETTE. Yes, I am going--to where you said. Good-bye my friend!Good-bye, Madame Catherine!

MME. CATHERINE. Have you to go in such a hurry?

HENRIETTE. Yes. 

ADOLPHE. Do you want me to go with you?

HENRIETTE. No, it wouldn't do. I am going alone, alone as I camehere, one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged where I don'tbelong, and believing there was something called freedom, whichdoes not exist. Good-bye! [Goes out. ]

MME. CATHERINE. I hope that lady never comes back, and I wish shehad never come here at all!

ADOLPHE. Who knows but that she may have had some mission to fillhere? And at any rate she deserves pity, endless pity. 

MME. CATHERINE. I don't, deny it, for all of us deserve that. 

ADOLPHE. And she has even done less wrong than the rest of us. 

MME. CATHERINE. That's possible, but not probable. 

ADOLPHE. You are always so severe, Madame Catherine. Tell me: haveyou never done anything wrong?

MME. CATHERINE. [Startled] Of course, as I am a sinful human creature. But if you have been on thin ice and fallen in, you have a right totell others to keep away. And you may do so without being held severeor uncharitable. Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that ladyentered here: Look out! Keep away! And he didn't, and so he fell in. Justlike a naughty, self-willed child. And when a man acts like that he hasto have a spanking, like any disobedient youngster. 

ADOLPHE. Well, hasn't he had his spanking?

MME. CATHERINE. Yes, but it does not seem to have been enough, ashe is still going around complaining. 

ADOLPHE. That's a very popular interpretation of the wholeintricate question. 

MME. CATHERINE. Oh, pish! You do nothing but philosophise aboutyour vices, and while you are still at it the police come alongand solve the riddle. Now please leave me alone with my accounts!

ADOLPHE. There's Maurice now. 

MME. CATHERINE. Yes, God bless him!

MAURICE. [Enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat nearADOLPHE] Good evening. 

(MME. CATHERINE nods and goes on figuring. )

ADOLPHE. Well, how's everything with you?

MAURICE. Oh, beginning to clear up. 

ADOLPHE. [Hands him a newspaper, which MAURICE does not take] Soyou have read the paper?

MAURICE. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's nothingbut infamies in them. 

ADOLPHE. But you had better read it first---

MAURICE. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies--But listen: I havefound a new clue. Can you guess who committed that murder?

ADOLPHE. Nobody, nobody!

MAURICE. Do you know where Henriette was during that quarter hourwhen the child was left alone?--She was THERE! And it is she whohas done it!

ADOLPHE. You are crazy, man. 

MAURICE. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects me and hasthreatened to report me. 

ADOLPHE. Henriette was here a while ago, and she used the self-same words as you. Both of you are crazy, for it has been provedby a second autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, the name of which I have forgotten. 

MAURICE. It isn't true!

ADOLPHE. That's what she said also. But the official report isprinted in the paper. 

MAURICE. A report? Then they have made it up!

ADOLPHE. And that's also what she said. The two of you aresuffering from the same mental trouble. But with her I got farenough to make her realise her own condition. 

MAURICE. Where did she go?

ADOLPHE. She went far away from here to begin a new life. 

MAURICE. Hm, hm!--Did you go to the funeral? ADOLPHE. I did. 

MAURICE. Well?

ADOLPHE. Well, Jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have a hard wordto say about you. 

MAURICE. She is a good woman. 

ADOLPHE. Why did you desert her then?

MAURICE. Because I WAS crazy--blown up with pride especially--andthen we had been drinking champagne---

ADOLPHE. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept when you drankchampagne?

MAURICE. Yes, I understand now--And for that reason I have alreadywritten to her and asked her to forgive me--Do you think she willforgive me?

ADOLPHE. I think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody. 

MAURICE. Do you think she will forgive me completely, so that shewill come back to me?

ADOLPHE. Well, I don't know about THAT. You have shown yourself sopoor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trusther fate to you any longer. 

MAURICE. But I can feel that her fondness for me has not ceased, and I know she will come back to me. 

ADOLPHE. How can you know that? How can you believe it? Didn't youeven suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sentthe police after Henriette out of revenge?

MAURICE. But I don't believe it any longer--that is to say, Iguess that fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer. 

MME. CATHERINE. Now look here! What are you saying of MonsieurEmile? Of course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybodykept as straight as he--There is no flaw in him, but a lot ofsense and tact. 

EMILE. [Enters] Monsieur Gerard?

MAURICE. That's me. 

EMILE. Pardon me, but I have something to say to you in private. 

MAURICE. Go right on. We are all friends here. 

(The ABBE enters and sits down. )

EMILE. [With a glance at the ABBE] Perhaps after---

MAURICE. Never mind. The Abbe is also a friend, although he and Idiffer. 

EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gerard? My sister has asked meto give you this package as an answer to your letter. 

(MAURICE takes the package and opens it. )

EMILE. And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a way mysister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, Iacknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tiebetween you does not exist any longer. 

MAURICE. But you must have a grudge against me?

EMILE. Must I? I can't see why. On the other hand, I should liketo have a declaration from you, here in the presence of yourfriends, that you don't think either me or my sister capable ofsuch a meanness as to send the police after MademoiselleHenriette. 

MAURICE. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you myapology, if you will accept it. 

EMILE. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goesout. ]

EVERYBODY. Good evening!

MAURICE. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for theopening night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into thefireplace. Who can have picked them up? Everything is dug up;everything comes back!--And when she gave them to me in thecemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, sothat other people would like me also--And she herself stayed athome--This hurt her too deeply, and well it might. I have no rightto keep company with decent human beings. Oh, have I done this?Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrificeoffered to my own welfare. This was what I threw away in order toget--a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust thatwould have belonged in the pillory--Abbe, now I come over to you. 

ABBE. Welcome!

MAURICE. Give me the word that I need. 

ABBE. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations andinform you that you have done nothing wrong?

MAURICE. Speak the right word!

ABBE. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found yourbehaviour just as abominable as you have found it yourself. 

MAURICE. What can I do, what can I do, to get out of this?

ABBE. You know as well as I do. 

MAURICE. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever. 

ABBE. And so you are looking for a new existence in some betterworld, which you are now beginning to believe in?

MAURICE. Yes, that's it. 

ABBE. You have been living in the flesh and you want now to livein the spirit. Are you then so sure that this world has no moreattractions for you?

MAURICE. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dryleaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me hide myself behind yourconsecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filledtwo days and lasted two eternities. 

ABBE. All right! But this is not the place to go into the mattermore closely. Let us make an appointment for this evening at nineo'clock in the Church of St. Germain. For I am going to preach tothe inmates of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step alongthe hard road of penitence. 

MAURICE. Penitence?

ABBE. Well, didn't you wish---

MAURICE. Yes, yes!

ABBE. Then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock. 

MAURICE. That will be splendid!

ABBE. Give me your hand that you will not look back. 

MAURICE. [Rising, holds out his hand] Here is my hand, and my willgoes with it. 

SERVANT GIRL. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call forMonsieur Maurice. 

MAURICE. From whom?

SERVANT GIRL. From the theatre. 

(MAURICE tries to get away, but the ABBE holds on to his hand. )

ABBE. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Find out what it is. 

SERVANT GIRL. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice is going toattend the performance tonight. 

ABBE. [To MAURICE, who is trying to get away] No, I won't let yougo. 

MAURICE. What performance is that?

ADOLPHE. Why don't you read the paper?

MME. CATHERINE and the ABBE. He hasn't read the paper?

MAURICE. It's all lies and slander. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Tellthem that I am engaged for this evening: I am going to church. 

(The SERVANT GIRL goes out into the kitchen. )

ADOLPHE. As you don't want to read the paper, I shall have to tellyou that your play has been put on again, now when you areexonerated. And your literary friends have planned a demonstrationfor this evening in recognition of your indisputable talent. 

MAURICE. It isn't true. 

EVERYBODY. It is true. 

MAURICE. [After a pause] I have not deserved it!

ABBE. Good!

ADOLPHE. And furthermore, Maurice---

MAURICE. [Hiding his face in his hands] Furthermore!

MME. CATHERINE. One hundred thousand francs! Do you see now thatthey come back to you? And the villa outside the city. Everythingis coming back except Mademoiselle Henriette. 

ABBE. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little moreseriously, Madame Catherine. 

MME. CATHERINE. Oh, I cannot--I just can't keep serious anylonger!

[She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smotherwith her handkerchief. ]

ADOLPHE. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight. 

ABBE. But the church services are at nine. 

ADOLPHE. Maurice!

MME. CATHERINE. Let us hear what the end is going to be, MonsieurMaurice. 

(MAURICE drops his head on the table, in his arms. )

ADOLPHE. Loose him, Abbe!

ABBE. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do thathimself. 

MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbe. 

ABBE. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you but ascolding, which you can give yourself. And you owe a duty toyourself and to your good name. That you have got through withthis as quickly as you have is to me a sign that you have sufferedyour punishment as intensely as if it had lasted an eternity. Andwhen Providence absolves you there is nothing for me to add. 

MAURICE. But why did the punishment have to be so hard when I wasinnocent?

ABBE. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we haveto stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. And in your thought you became a murderer when your evil selfwished the life out of your child. 

MAURICE. You are right. But my decision is made. To-night I willmeet you at the church in order to have a reckoning with myself--but to-morrow evening I go to the theatre. 

MME. CATHERINE. A good solution, Monsieur Maurice. 

ADOLPHE. Yes, that is the solution. Whew!

ABBE. Yes, so it is!

(Curtain. )