Julia.
But your dreams are poisonous. You want a woman to be your mistress and
yet be chaste--to keep the blush of maidenhood and yet be as passionate
as yourself.--And what have you learned from your experience in the
world? Nothing, except how to scent and track out the sins that lie
hidden in one's inmost soul, the secret sins that one dares not admit
to oneself.--And when the prey is in reach, then you fire away with
your "rights of the modern woman," your "sovereignty of the freed
individuality"--and whatever the rest of the phrases may be.--Ah! You
knew better than I that we all have the Scarlet Woman's blood in our
veins!--Blow away the halo--and the saint is gone!
Pierre.
It seems to me you found a great deal of pleasure in your sin!
Julia.
Yes--at least that's what one tells oneself--perhaps one feels it,
too.--It depends--more in the evening than the morning--more in March
than October.--But the dread, the horror of it, is always there.--The
weight of such love is like the weight of one's own coffin-lid.--And
you soon discovered that, Pierre.--Then you began softly, gently, to
bind me to you with glances and caresses that were like chains of
roses!--Yes, and that I become maddened by roses as cats by valerian,
that, too, you soon found out.--Then--then you began to speak to me of
the lover's pavilion--all covered with roses--where your ancestors
spent happy, pastoral hours in wooing their loves--the pavilion that
had been waiting so long for a new mistress. You spoke of adorning it
with beautiful hangings--of filling it full of roses. Oh you, you
Pierre, how well you understood!--Do have some black coffee made for
me! If the gardener can't do it, make it yourself! Please, please!
Pierre.
But, I tell you, I have to go back to mamma.
Julia.
Nowadays, you always "have to go back to mamma." Shall I tell you
something--a big secret? You are tired of me! You want to get rid
of me--only you don't know how!
Pierre.
Your notions are offensive, my dear.
Julia.
Pierre, I know my fate. I know I am doomed to the gutter. But not
yet! Don't leave me yet! Care for me a little while longer--so the
fall won't be too sudden.--Let me stay here as long as the roses
bloom--here, where _he_ can't find me! Oh, if I leave this place I
shall die of fear!--Nowhere else am I safe from those two great fists
of his!--Pierre, Pierre, you don't know his fists--they're like two
iron bolts!--You, too--beware of him!
Pierre (_half to himself_).
Why do you say that to me?
Julia.
He was always jealous of you. When you sent the hothouse roses in
April, he became suspicious. Ever since then, he has continually had
the notion of an admirer in his head. That was the danger-signal!
Pierre, if he surmised--then you would be the first--and I would come
afterward! Pierre, if you drive me to desperation, I'll give you up to
him!----
Pierre.
Are you mad?
Julia.
I'll write him a letter something like this: "If you want to find the
traces of my flight, search the rubbish heap behind the lover's
pavilion. Search for the faded petals of the roses upon which, night
after night, Pierre and I celebrated our union. Search the highway for
the bloody prints of my bare feet after he turned me out. Then search
the dregs of the brothels where I found a refuge. And then--then avenge
me!"
Pierre.