FIRST SCENE
(In the Cremerie. The gas is lit. MME. CATHERINE is seated at the
counter, ADOLPHE at a table.)
MME. CATHERINE. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But you young ones are
always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubber over it
afterward.
ADOLPHE. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I am as fond as ever
of both of them. But there is one thing that makes me sick at heart.
You see, I thought more of Maurice than of anybody else; so much that I
wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give him pleasure--but now
I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than the loss of her. I have
lost both of them, and so my loneliness is made doubly painful. And then
there is still something else which I 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 is the
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 I heard a
while ago? Is it true that you have sold a picture in London 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 about it?
ADOLPHE. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almost worthless
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 have always
been.
ADOLPHE. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune come
in the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings out true
friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour of success--You
asked me if I ever went to church, and I answered evasively. This
morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germain without really
knowing why I did so. It seemed as if I were looking for somebody in
there--somebody to whom I could silently offer my gratitude. But I found
nobody. Then I dropped a gold coin in 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 to think
of the poor after having heard good news.
ADOLPHE. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was something I did
because I couldn't help myself. But something more occurred while I
was in the church. I saw Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, and her child.
Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, they seemed aware of the
full extent of their misfortune.
MME. CATHERINE. Well, children, I don't know in what kind of shape
you keep your consciences. But how a decent fellow, a careful and
considerate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden desert a
woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain.
ADOLPHE. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to understand it
himself. I met them this morning, and everything appeared quite natural
to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagine anything else. It
was as if they had been enjoying the satisfaction of a good deed or the
fulfilment of a sacred duty. There are things, Madame Catherine, that
we cannot explain, and for this reason it is not for us to judge. And
besides, you saw how it happened. Maurice felt the danger in the air.
I foresaw it and tried to prevent their meeting. Maurice wanted to run
away from it, but nothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had been laid
by some invisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile into
each other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in this case, but I
wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not guilty."
MME. CATHERINE. Well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that's what
I call religion.
ADOLPHE. Heavens, could it be that I am religious without knowing it.
MME. CATHERINE. But then, to LET oneself be driven or tempted into evil,
as Monsieur Maurice has done, means weakness or bad character. And if
you feel your strength failing you, then you ask for help, and then you
get it. But he was too conceited to do that--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, and that 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 previous illness.
MME. CATHERINE. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways!
ABBE. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur Maurice
look after her, so we must try to find him. But first a question in
confidence: do you know whether Monsieur Maurice was fond of the child,
or was indifferent to it?
MME. CATHERINE. If he was fond of Marion? Why, all of us know how he
loved her.
ADOLPHE. There's no doubt about that.
ABBE. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as I am
concerned.
MME. CATHERINE. Has there been any doubt about it?
ABBE. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in the neighbourhood
that he had abandoned the child and its mother in order to go away with
a strange woman. In a few hours this rumour has grown into definite
accusations, and at the same time the feeling against him has risen
to such a point that his life is threatened 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 is
innocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about it as I
do. But appearances are against Monsieur Maurice, and I think he will
find it rather hard to clear himself when the police come to question
him.
ADOLPHE. Have the police got hold of the matter?
ABBE. Yea, the police have had to step in to protect him against all
those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. Probably the Commissaire
will be here soon.
MME. CATHERINE. [To ADOLPHE] There you see what happens when a man
cannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when he trifles
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 the
Commissaire.
COMMISSAIRE. [Enters] Gentlemen--Madame Catherine--I have to trouble you
for a moment with a few questions concerning Monsieur Maurice. As you
have probably heard, he has become the object of a hideous 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 sake I
must give him a chance to defend himself.
ABBE. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, although it may
come hard.
COMMISSAIRE. Appearances are very much against him, but I have
seen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocence was
discovered. Let me tell you what there is against him. The little girl,
Marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretly visited by the
father, who seems to have made sure of the time when the child was to
be found alone. Fifteen minutes after his visit the mother returned home
and found the child dead. All this makes 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 leave no traces behind them. To me all this is mere
coincidence of the kind I frequently come across. But here's something
that looks worse. Last night Monsieur Maurice was seen at the Auberge
des Adrets in company with a strange lady. According to the waiter, they
were talking about crimes. The Place de Roquette and the scaffold were
both mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for a pair of lovers of
good breeding and good social position! But even this may be passed
over, as we know by experience that people who have been drinking and
losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to dig up all the worst that lies at
the bottom of their souls. Far more serious is the evidence given by the
head waiter as to their champagne breakfast in the Bois de Boulogne this
morning. He says that he heard them wish the life out of a child. The
man is said to have remarked that, "It would be better if it had never
existed." To which the woman replied: "Indeed! But now it does exist."
And as they went on talking, these words occurred: "This will kill
this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word is that?" And also:
"The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, the Place de Roquette." All
this, you see, will be hard to get out of, and so will the foreign
journey planned for this evening. These are serious matters.
ADOLPHE. He is lost!
MME. CATHERINE. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't know what to
believe.
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 in this
matter. Have you not seen angels turn into devils just as you turn your
hand, and then become angels again?
COMMISSAIRE. It certainly does look queer. However, we'll have to wait
and hear what explanations he can give. No one will be judged unheard.
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 the undoing of
man.
ABBE. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is a terrible
test.
JEANNE. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening. Pardon me for
asking, 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. And it was
fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to the Commissaire.
JEANNE. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice also, does he?
ABBE. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But appearances are
against him in a most appalling manner.
JEANNE. You mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--it means
nothing to me, who has heard such things before when Maurice had had
a few drinks. Then it is his custom to speculate on crimes and their
punishment. Besides it seems to have been the woman in his company who
dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should like to have a look into
that woman's eyes.
ADOLPHE. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman may have
done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, she had no
intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of her nature. I
know her to be a good soul and one who can very well bear being looked
straight in the eye.
JEANNE. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has great value to me,
and I believe what you say. It means that I cannot hold anybody but
myself responsible for what has happened. It is my carelessness that is
now being punished. [She begins to cry.]
ABBE. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and the serious spirit
in which you have regarded your motherhood. That your assumption of this
responsibility had not been sanctioned by religion and the civil law was
not your fault. No, we are here facing 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 meet HENRIETTE]
You here?
HENRIETTE. Yes, where is Maurice?
ADOLPHE. Do you know--or don't you?
HENRIETTE. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame Catherine, but I was
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 matters very
little, for anything I can say must sound like an insult or a mockery.
But if I ask you simply to believe that I share your deep sorrow as much
as anybody standing closer to you, then you must not turn away from me.
You mustn't, for I deserve your pity if not your forbearance. [Holds out
her hand.]
JEANNE. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now--and in the next moment 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! I don't
deserve it!
ABBE. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems to
prevail temporarily at least, won't you, Mademoiselle Henriette, shed
some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surrounding the main
point of accusation? I ask you, as a friend among friends, to tell us
what you meant with all that talk about killing, and crime, and the
Place de Roquette. That your words had no connection with the death
of the child, we have reason to believe, but it would give us added
assurance to hear what you were 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 us all.
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's death. 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 just now!
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 not be
exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human justice, but a great
deal with divine mercy.
MAURICE. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't look at the
others, who are standing in the background, but goes straight up to
the counter, where MME. CATHERINE is sitting.] You are not angry at me,
Madame Catherine, because I didn't show up. I have come now to apologise
to you before I start for the South at eight o'clock this evening.
(MME. CATHERINE is too startled to say a word.)
MAURICE. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around] What does all this
mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of course, I can see that it is all
real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--There is Jeanne, looking like a
statue and dressed in black--And Henriette looking like 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 is it? [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. How did
it happen? Who did it? Somebody must have done it? [His eyes seek
HENRIETTE.]
ADOLPHE. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none to
he found. Unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion in a
direction where none ought to exist.
MAURICE. What direction is that?
ADOLPHE. Well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk last
night and this morning has placed you in a light that is anything but
favourable.
MAURICE, So they were listening to us. Let me see, what were we
saying--I remember!--Then I am lost!
ADOLPHE. But if you explain your thoughtless words we will believe you.
MAURICE. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to prison, but it
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 you realise
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 a murderer,
and who could hold me capable of taking my own child's life? 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 the heart
thinketh the tongue speaketh. And your tongue has spoken evil words.
MAURICE. She doesn't believe me!
ADOLPHE. But explain your words, man! Explain what you meant by saying
that "your love would kill everything that stood in its way."
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 lost our
sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have sworn that you were
innocent, and I wouldn't do that now.
MAURICE. [To JEANNE] What you have to say means more to me than anything
else. JEANNE. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who was it you cursed
during that orgie out there?
MAURICE. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am guilty, and yet I am
guiltless. Let me go away from here, for I am ashamed of myself, and I
have done more wrong than I can forgive myself.
HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Go with him and see that he doesn't do himself
any harm.
ADOLPHE. Shall I--?
HENRIETTE. Who else?
ADOLPHE. [Without bitterness] You are nearest to it--Sh! A carriage is
stopping outside.
MME. CATHERINE. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as I have seen of life,
I could never have believed that success and fame were such short-lived
things.
MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] From the triumphal chariot to the patrol wagon!
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 Police
Headquarters--to-night, at once--for Monsieur Maurice Gerard--and for
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 HENRIETTE go
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, something despicable
to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonable when a woman and her
child are involved.
EMILE. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when it concerns
my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented from throwing the first
stone because I have done the same thing myself.
ABBE. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am not throwing
any stones either, but the act condemns itself and is punished by its
consequences.
JEANNE. Pray for him! For both of them!
ABBE. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinence to
want to change the counsels of the Lord. And what has happened here is,
indeed, not the work of man.
(Curtain.)
SECOND SCENE
(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.)