(The Auberge des Adrets. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at the same table where MAURICE and HENRIETTE were sitting in the second act. A cup of coffee stands in front of ADOLPHE. HENRIETTE has ordered nothing.)
ADOLPHE. You believe then that he will come here?
HENRIETTE. I am sure. He was released this noon for lack of evidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the streets before it was dark.
ADOLPHE. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to me since yesterday.
HENRIETTE. And what about me? I am afraid to live, dare hardly breathe, dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody is spying not only on my words but on my thoughts.
ADOLPHE. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't find you?
HENRIETTE. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from shame when I 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? I was lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitched me—I cannot explain it. But if you had come, it would never have happened. And to-day you are great, and he is small—less than the least of all. Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-day he has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. And public opinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will be judged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that see farthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he was responsible 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 you tell me what those dreadful words of yours meant? It cannot be a chance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt so largely 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 to appear 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 are many unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may even be our intimate friends?
ADOLPHE. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean?
HENRIETTE. Don't you believe that every human being at some time or another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fall under the law if it were discovered?
ADOLPHE. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act escapes being punished by one's own conscience at least. [Rises and unbuttons his coat] And—nobody is really good who has not erred. [Breathing heavily] For in order to know how to forgive, one must have been in need of forgiveness—I had a friend whom we used to regard as a model man. He never spoke a hard word to anybody; he forgave everything and everybody; and he suffered insults with a strange satisfaction that we couldn't explain. At last, late in life, he gave me his secret in a single word: I am a penitent! [He sits down again.]
(HENRIETTE remains silent, looking at him with surprise.)
ADOLPHE. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes not mentioned in the Criminal Code, and these are the worse ones, for they have to be punished by ourselves, and no judge could be more severe than we are against our own selves.
HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did he find peace?
ADOLPHE. After endless self-torture he reached a certain degree of composure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. He never dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared to feel 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 his father 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 a time as wholly recovered—as they put it. But the sense of guilt remained with him, and so he continued to punish himself for his evil 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—I am sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with their hatred. You see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all our tastes and inclinations. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, he tried to root it out. In that way he aroused a resistance that accumulated until it became like an electrical battery charged with hatred. At last it grew so powerful that he languished away, became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the end, came to wish 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 do you believe Maurice will look when he gets here? What do you think he will say?
HENRIETTE. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make the same 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 yet not repent of them.
HENRIETTE. It must be because I don't feel quite responsible for them. They are like the dirt left behind by things handled during the day and washed off at night. But tell me one thing: do you really think so highly of humanity as you profess to do?
ADOLPHE. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation—and a little worse.
HENRIETTE. That is not a straightforward answer.
ADOLPHE. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me frankly when I ask you: do you still love Maurice?
HENRIETTE. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this moment I feel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well live without him.
ADOLPHE. It's likely you could, but I fear you have become chained to his fate—Sh! Here he comes.
HENRIETTE. How everything repeats itself. The situation is the same, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting you yesterday.
MAURICE. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, my dear friends, if this be me. For that last night in a cell changed me into a new sort of being. [Notices HENRIETTE and ADOLPHE.]
ADOLPHE. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talk things 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, and suspicious also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself. And who wants 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 by public opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice Gerard, once a playwright, and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc—
HENRIETTE. O my mother and my sisters—my mother! Jesus have mercy!
MAURICE. And can you see that I actually look like a murderer? And then it is suggested that my play was stolen. So there isn't a vestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of my own, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and he 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 success in 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 also prevented from accepting any distinctions—like your friend?
ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes!
MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still farther apart.
ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonely with my success as you with your adversity. Think of it—that people 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 eyes had been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape of all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the room I saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise both of you, of course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here and search for words because I don't know what to say to you. I ought to defend myself, but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for it protected me, at least, against the curious glances that pass right through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress! You don't love 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 a table in the background.)
ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That you have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in some of the evening papers. And that puts an end to the whole matter. Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to the worst, you can write a new one. Leave Paris for a year and let everything become forgotten. You who have exonerated mankind will be exonerated yourself.
MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha!
ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, if I ever did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of looking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. When I, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, what must then be the wretchedness of the rest?
ADOLPHE. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers, and then we'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a different way.
MAURICE. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!—It means that I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myself away by careless talking.
ADOLPHE. Those are not detectives. That's only your imagination. I recognise both of them. [Goes toward the door.]
MAURICE. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that Henriette and I may come to open explanations.
ADOLPHE. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your future. Try to keep him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in a moment. [Goes out.]
HENRIETTE. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of our guilt or guiltlessness?
MAURICE. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a lot of nonsense 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 you who cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, and wanted to go away without saying good-bye to anybody? And was it not I who made you visit Marion and show yourself to Madame Catherine?
MAURICE. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved yourself more human than I, and the guilt is wholly my own. Forgive me! But all the same I am without guilt. Who has tied this net from which I can never free myself? Guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yet guilty! Oh, it is driving me mad—Look, now they sit over there and listen to us—And no waiter comes to take our order. I'll go out 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 your papers.
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. Yesterday you came here with one man, and today with another. That's as good as walking the streets. And unescorted ladies don't get anything here. 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 kind that doesn't help a girl a bit!
HENRIETTE. O God! My mother, my sisters!—I am of good family, I tell you.
DETECTIVE. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you are too well known through the papers. Come along!
HENRIETTE. Where? What do you mean?
DETECTIVE. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll get a nice little 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 pay and 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 sou left.
WAITER. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse! Alphonse! Do you 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 generally have 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 Abbe was right: this is not the work of man.
MAURICE. No, it's the devil's!—But if we leave before Adolphe returns, he will think that we have deceived him and run away.
HENRIETTE. That would be in keeping with the rest—But we'll go into the river now, won't we?
MAURICE. [Takes HENRIETTE by the hand as they walk out together] Into the river—yes!
(Curtain.)
(In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve. The wind is shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, and pieces 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 very cold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and a few shavings to lie on. And besides that, it seems to me as if there were still some task waiting for me, but I cannot make out what it is.
HENRIETTE. But I can guess what it is.
MAURICE. Tell me.
HENRIETTE. It is revenge. You, like me, must have suspected Jeanne and Emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. Such a revenge on a rival none but a woman could devise.
MAURICE. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell you that my suspicions go even further. It seems as if my sufferings during these last few days had sharpened my wits. Can you explain, for instance, why the waiter from the Auberge des Adrets and the head waiter from the Pavilion were not called to testify at the hearing?
HENRIETTE. I never thought of it before. But now I know why. They had nothing to tell, because they had not been listening.
MAURICE. But how could the Commissaire then know what we had been saying?
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 similar case before.
MAURICE. Or else he concluded from our looks what we had been saying. There are those who can read other people's thoughts—Adolphe being the dupe, it seemed quite natural that we should have called him an ass. It's the rule, I understand, although it's varied at times by the use of "idiot" instead. But ass was nearer at hand in this case, as we had been talking of carriages and triumphal chariots. It is quite simple to figure out a fourth fact, when you have three known ones to start from.
HENRIETTE. Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in so completely.
MAURICE. That's the result of thinking too well of one's fellow beings. This is all you get out of it. But do you know,Isuspect 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 private detective.
MAURICE. That's what I mean. That man has to receive all kinds of confessions. And note you: Adolphe himself told us he had been at the Church of St. Germain that morning. What was he doing there? He was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. And then the priest 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 from whom I have taken away his mistress?
HENRIETTE. Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I'll give you some data about our friend. You heard he had returned that medal from London. Do you know his reason for doing so?
MAURICE. No.
HENRIETTE. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken a penitential 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 not punishable under the law. That's what he gave me to understand indirectly.
MAURICE. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model man, who never speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything.
HENRIETTE. Well, there you can see that we are no worse than others. And yet we are being hounded day and night as if devils were after us.
MAURICE. He, also! Then mankind has not been slandered—But if he has been capable of ONE crime, then you may expect anything of him. 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 when he saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insisted that those fellows were not detectives. But, of course, you may expect 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 talking of 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 Madame Catherine's wavering attitude in this matter? Didn't she say finally 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 a villain yourself.
(HENRIETTE looks hard at him. Pause.)
HENRIETTE. To think evil of others, you must be a villain yourself.
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 meet anybody 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 been lying 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 my thoughts have been heading all the time, though I resisted as long as possible. It's queer that what lies next to one is seen last of all, and what one doesn't WANT to believe cannot be believed—Tell me something: where did you go yesterday morning, after we parted in the Bois?
HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] Why?
MAURICE. You went either to Adolphe—which you couldn't do, as he was 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 an interest in getting the child out of the way—to get rid of the rock 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 committed the crime.
HENRIETTE. Now, Maurice, we have been running around and around in this tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us quit before we get to 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 we drive 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 chained together.
MAURICE. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. Are we really to marry? To settle down in the same place? To be able to close the door behind us and perhaps get peace at last?
HENRIETTE. And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other to death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriage portion; you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and I getting back at you with Jeanne—and Marion.
MAURICE. Never mention the name of Marion again! Don't you know that 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 me against 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, well worthy of being loved—-
MAURICE. And now sunk to such a depth!
HENRIETTE. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt bad qualities which are not your own.
MAURICE. But yours?
HENRIETTE. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feel myself 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 myself since that night in the cell. They put in one person and let out another through that gate which separates us from the rest of society. And now I feel myself the enemy of all mankind: I should like to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothing less than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour.
HENRIETTE. I had a letter from my mother today. She is the widow of a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas of honour 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 respectable acquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if I show myself on the streets alone the police will take me. Do you realise now that we have to get married?
MAURICE. We despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that is hell pure and simple! But, Henriette, before we unite our destinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on more equal terms.
HENRIETTE. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who got into trouble—you understand. I wanted to help her, as her whole future was 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 temper you will accuse me of it.
MAURICE. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has shaken my faith in you and that it makes me afraid of you. Tell me, is her lover still alive, and does he know to what extent you were responsible?
HENRIETTE. He was as guilty as I.
MAURICE. And if his conscience should begin to trouble him—such things do happen—and if he should feel inclined to confess: then you would be lost.
HENRIETTE. I know it, and it is this constant dread which has made me rush from one dissipation to another—so that I should never have time to wake up to full consciousness.
MAURICE. And now you want me to take my marriage portion out of your 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 hold until I have put you where you belong. For you can't go around thinking 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 thy sake; 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 the garden has to be closed.
(Curtain.)
(The Cremerie. MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter making entries into an account book. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at a table.)
ADOLPHE. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final assurance that I didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, I thought you had played me false, this ought to convince you.
HENRIETTE. But why did you fool us by saying that those fellows were not policemen?
ADOLPHE. I didn't think myself that they were, and then I wanted to reassure you.
HENRIETTE. When you say it, I believe you. But then you must also believe me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts to you.
ADOLPHE. Go on.
HENRIETTE. But you mustn't come back with your usual talk of fancies 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 something terrible: I have partial evidence that Maurice is guilty, or at least, I have reasonable suspicions—-
ADOLPHE. You don't mean it!
HENRIETTE. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Maurice left me in the Bois, he said he was going to see Marion alone, as the mother was out. And now I have discovered afterward that he did meet the mother. So that he has been lying to me.
ADOLPHE. That's possible, and his motive for doing so may have been the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he is guilty 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 left for me but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove an alibi.
ADOLPHE. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You, like he, have reached the border line of—insanity. The demons of distrust have got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense of partial guilt to wound the other with. Let me see if I can make a straight guess: he has also come to suspect you of killing his child?
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 suspect him unjustly.
ADOLPHE. Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved that Marion died of a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannot recall 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 that kind of thing.
ADOLPHE. Beware, Henriette—or you may, without knowing it, pass across that border line. Beware especially of throwing out accusations that may put you into prison. Beware! [He places his hand on her head] You hate Maurice?
HENRIETTE. Beyond all bounds!
ADOLPHE. When love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted from the start.
HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell me, you who are 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 knife to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that YOUR trouble roots.
HENRIETTE. Explain yourself.
ADOLPHE. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse your qualms of conscience together. Break off your career as an artist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for freedom and fun—as they call it. And you have seen now how much fun 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 your secret and why you wouldn't accept the prize?
ADOLPHE. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-told story.
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 life like that of a penitent.
HENRIETTE. How can you repent when, like me, you have no conscience? Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faith is?
ADOLPHE. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless you seek it—Seek!
(HENRIETTE remains silent.)
ADOLPHE. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you may harden 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 the misdeeds 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 anybody else 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 came here, one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged where I don't belong, and believing there was something called freedom, which does not exist. Good-bye! [Goes out.]
MME. CATHERINE. I hope that lady never comes back, and I wish she had never come here at all!
ADOLPHE. Who knows but that she may have had some mission to fill here? 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: have you 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 to tell others to keep away. And you may do so without being held severe or uncharitable. Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that lady entered here: Look out! Keep away! And he didn't, and so he fell in. Just like a naughty, self-willed child. And when a man acts like that he has to 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, as he is still going around complaining.
ADOLPHE. That's a very popular interpretation of the whole intricate question.
MME. CATHERINE. Oh, pish! You do nothing but philosophise about your vices, and while you are still at it the police come along and 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 near ADOLPHE] 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] So you have read the paper?
MAURICE. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's nothing but infamies in them.
ADOLPHE. But you had better read it first—-
MAURICE. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies—But listen: I have found a new clue. Can you guess who committed that murder?
ADOLPHE. Nobody, nobody!
MAURICE. Do you know where Henriette was during that quarter hour when the child was left alone?—She was THERE! And it is she who has done it!
ADOLPHE. You are crazy, man.
MAURICE. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects me and has threatened 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 proved by 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 is printed in the paper.
MAURICE. A report? Then they have made it up!
ADOLPHE. And that's also what she said. The two of you are suffering from the same mental trouble. But with her I got far enough 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 word to 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—and then we had been drinking champagne—-
ADOLPHE. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept when you drank champagne?
MAURICE. Yes, I understand now—And for that reason I have already written to her and asked her to forgive me—Do you think she will forgive 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 she will come back to me?
ADOLPHE. Well, I don't know about THAT. You have shown yourself so poor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trust her 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 you even suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sent the police after Henriette out of revenge?
MAURICE. But I don't believe it any longer—that is to say, I guess that fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer.
MME. CATHERINE. Now look here! What are you saying of Monsieur Emile? Of course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybody kept as straight as he—There is no flaw in him, but a lot of sense 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 I differ.
EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gerard? My sister has asked me to 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 my sister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, I acknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tie between 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 like to have a declaration from you, here in the presence of your friends, that you don't think either me or my sister capable of such a meanness as to send the police after Mademoiselle Henriette.
MAURICE. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you my apology, if you will accept it.
EMILE. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goes out.]
EVERYBODY. Good evening!
MAURICE. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for the opening night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into the fireplace. Who can have picked them up? Everything is dug up; everything comes back!—And when she gave them to me in the cemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, so that other people would like me also—And she herself stayed at home—This hurt her too deeply, and well it might. I have no right to keep company with decent human beings. Oh, have I done this? Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrifice offered to my own welfare. This was what I threw away in order to get—a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust that would 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 and inform you that you have done nothing wrong?
MAURICE. Speak the right word!
ABBE. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found your behaviour 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 better world, 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 live in the spirit. Are you then so sure that this world has no more attractions for you?
MAURICE. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dry leaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me hide myself behind your consecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filled two days and lasted two eternities.
ABBE. All right! But this is not the place to go into the matter more closely. Let us make an appointment for this evening at nine o'clock in the Church of St. Germain. For I am going to preach to the inmates of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step along the 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 will goes with it.
SERVANT GIRL. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call for Monsieur 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 to attend the performance tonight.
ABBE. [To MAURICE, who is trying to get away] No, I won't let you go.
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] Tell them 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 tell you that your play has been put on again, now when you are exonerated. And your literary friends have planned a demonstration for 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 that they come back to you? And the villa outside the city. Everything is coming back except Mademoiselle Henriette.
ABBE. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little more seriously, Madame Catherine.
MME. CATHERINE. Oh, I cannot—I just can't keep serious any longer!
[She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smother with 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, Monsieur Maurice.
(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 that himself.
MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbe.
ABBE. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you but a scolding, which you can give yourself. And you owe a duty to yourself and to your good name. That you have got through with this as quickly as you have is to me a sign that you have suffered your punishment as intensely as if it had lasted an eternity. And when Providence absolves you there is nothing for me to add.
MAURICE. But why did the punishment have to be so hard when I was innocent?
ABBE. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we have to stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. And in your thought you became a murderer when your evil self wished the life out of your child.
MAURICE. You are right. But my decision is made. To-night I will meet 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.)