Eugne Brieux

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

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

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

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

GuÉret [resignedly] Very well, my dear.

A pause.

Madame GuÉret. I can't get over it.

GuÉret. Over what?

Madame GuÉret. What we're doing. What are we doing?

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

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

GuÉret. We—

Madame GuÉret [Who has seen Lucienne come in] Hush!

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

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

Madame GuÉret. Now don't be nervous.

Maud [coming in] We're ready.

Antoinette. If the third act only goes as well as the first two—

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

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

Madame GuÉret. No, I can't. I've had to undertake the noises behind the scenes. That job might have been given to someone else, I think.

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

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

Lucienne. How pretty she is as Kalekairi.

Madame GuÉret. You don't think people are shocked by her frock?

Lucienne. Oh, Madame!

Madame GuÉret. Well!

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

Madame GuÉret. Yes; so can I. But RenÉ will let us know. Never mind.

She goes to the piano. RenÉ appears at the door at the back.

RenÉ. Are you ready, Lucienne?

Lucienne. Yes.

RenÉ. You've only two lines to say.

Lucienne. Only one. [She speaks low to RenÉ] No end of a success, wasn't it, for your ThÉrÈse?

RenÉ [low] Wasn't it? I am so happy, Lucienne. I love her so.

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

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

Madame GuÉret accompanies Lucienne on the piano.

Lucienne [sings]

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

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

Madame GuÉret [civilly] You have a delightful voice, Mademoiselle Lucienne.

Lucienne places her music on the piano with a smile to Madame GuÉret.

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

Madame GuÉret [resigned] Yes, yes, of course.

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

Lucienne. I will, yes.

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

Lucienne. Yes, yes. [She goes out]

Madame GuÉret [with a sigh] To have a play being acted in the circumstances we're in—it's beyond everything! I cannot think how I came to allow it.

GuÉret. You see they'd been rehearsing for a week. And ThÉrÈse—

Madame GuÉret. And I not only allowed it, but I'm almost taking part in it.

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

Madame GuÉret. Well, you asked me to keep it all from her until to-morrow—though it concerns her as much as it does us. [Monsieur FÉliat comes in, a man of sixty, correct without being elegant] Here's my brother.

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

Madame GuÉret. Yes, constantly.

FÉliat. Let's go into another room.

Madame GuÉret. I can't. And all the rooms are full of people.

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

Madame GuÉret [angrily] Yes, I've got to do the noises heard off! At my age! [A sigh] Tell us, Etienne, what is it?

GuÉret. We can wait until the play is over.

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

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

GuÉret [who has glanced at the paper] But we can't get her to sign that without telling her all about it.

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

GuÉret. The poor child!

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

GuÉret. We still have La Tremblaye.

Madame GuÉret. Yes, thank goodness, because La Tremblaye belongs to me.

RenÉ comes in in great excitement.

RenÉ. Where is Mademoiselle ThÉrÈse? She'll keep the stage waiting! [Listening] No, she's coming, I hear her. Nice fright she's given me! [To Madame GuÉret] Above all, Madame, don't forget the bell, almost the moment that Mademoiselle ThÉrÈse comes off the stage.

Madame GuÉret. Yes, yes.

RenÉ. And my properties! [He runs out]

FÉliat. Now we can talk for a minute.

Madame GuÉret. Yes.

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

GuÉret. Quite.

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

Madame GuÉret. Oh, no.

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

Madame GuÉret. Since you began to play cards.

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

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

GuÉret [rising] What are we to do?

FÉliat. Well, now listen to me. I told you—

RenÉ comes in and takes something off a table. FÉliat stops suddenly.

RenÉ. Good-morning, uncle. [He hurries out]

FÉliat. Good-morning, RenÉ.

GuÉret. He knows nothing about it yet?

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

Madame GuÉret. Well, why shouldn't you? If they are engaged, we know nothing about it.

GuÉret. Oh!

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

FÉliat. RenÉ told his people and they gave their consent.

Madame GuÉret. Unwillingly.

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

Madame GuÉret. The sooner the better.

FÉliat. I'll tell him to-night.

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

Madame GuÉret. Oh, he's young. He'll get over it.

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

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

Madame GuÉret. I am delighted.

FÉliat. Then that's all right.

GuÉret [to his brother-in-law] I think you won't regret having confidence in me.

FÉliat. And your goddaughter?

Madame GuÉret. ThÉrÈse?

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

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

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

GuÉret. She will live with us, of course.

Madame GuÉret. "Of course"! I like that.

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

Madame GuÉret. He left her in your care, and it's I who have been rushed into all the trouble of a child who is nothing to me.

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

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

Madame GuÉret [laughing bitterly] Ho! Ho! Look after! Look after Mademoiselle ThÉrÈse! You think she's a person who allows herself to be looked after! And yet you've seen her more or less every holidays.

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

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

ThÉrÈse. The bell, the bell, godmother! You're forgetting the bell! Good-evening, Monsieur FÉliat.

ThÉrÈse takes up the bell, which is on the table.

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

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

ThÉrÈse [laughing] Ah, my dress. Startling, isn't it?

Madame GuÉret [with meaning] Startling is the right word.

RenÉ [appearing at the back, disappearing again immediately, and calling] The bell! And you, on the stage, Mademoiselle ThÉrÈse!

ThÉrÈse. I'm coming. [She rings] Here I am!

She goes out.

Madame GuÉret [with a sigh] And I had it let down!

FÉliat. What?

Madame GuÉret. Her dress. [To her husband] What I see most clearly in all this is that she must stay with us.

RenÉ comes fussing in.

RenÉ. Where's the queen? Where's Madame NÉrisse?

Madame GuÉret. I've not seen her.

RenÉ. But goodness gracious—! [He goes to the door on the left and calls] Madame NÉrisse!

Madame NÉrisse [from outside] Yes, yes, I'm ready.

Madame NÉrisse comes in. She is about forty, flighty, and a little affected.

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

Madame NÉrisse. Very well. Is it time?

RenÉ. Yes, come. [To Madame GuÉret] You won't forget the trumpets?

Madame GuÉret. No, no. All the same, you'd better help me.

RenÉ. I will, I will.

He goes out with Madame NÉrisse.

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

Madame GuÉret. Without a penny!

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

Madame GuÉret. She's young.

FÉliat. Monsieur Gambard sounded me about her.

Madame GuÉret. Monsieur Gambard! The Monsieur Gambard who has the house with the big garden?

FÉliat. Yes.

Madame GuÉret. But he's very rich.

FÉliat. He's forty-nine.

Madame GuÉret. She'll have to take what she can get now.

FÉliat. And I think that Monsieur Beaudoin——

GuÉret. But he's almost a cripple!

Madame GuÉret. She wouldn't do so well in Paris.

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

FÉliat. We must try and make her see reason.

RenÉ enters busily. Lucienne follows him. FÉliat is standing across the guichet through which Barberine is to speak. RenÉ pulls him away without ceremony.

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

FÉliat. Beg pardon. I didn't know.

RenÉ. I haven't a moment.

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

Madame GuÉret. Probably RenÉ has more taste for the stage than for business.

RenÉ [laughing] Rather! [To Lucienne] Now, it's time. Come. Lift it. Not yet! There! Now!

Lucienne [speaking through the guichet] "If you want food and drink, you must do like those old women you despise—you must spin."

RenÉ. Capital!

Lucienne [to FÉliat] Please forgive me, Monsieur, I've not had time to speak to you.

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

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

FÉliat. That's good, oh, that's very good! Barberine—now, who wrote that?

Lucienne. Alfred de Musset.

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

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

FÉliat [very politely] Sorry, I'm sure.

RenÉ [to Lucienne] You. Now.

Lucienne [speaking through the guichet] "My lord, these cries are useless. It grows late. If you wish to sup—you must spin." [turning to the others] There! Now I must go over the rest with Ulric.

She runs out, with a little wave of adieu to FÉliat.

RenÉ [to Madame GuÉret] The trumpets, Madame. Don't forget.

Madame GuÉret. No, no. Don't worry.

RenÉ goes out.

FÉliat. You blow trumpets?

Madame GuÉret. Yes; on the piano.

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

Madame GuÉret. Nor am I.

ThÉrÈse comes in in the Kalekairi dress, followed by RenÉ.

ThÉrÈse. It's time for me now.

FÉliat [to Madame GuÉret] She really looks like a professional actress.

RenÉ [to ThÉrÈse] Now!

ThÉrÈse [speaking through the little window] "My lady says, as you will not spin, you cannot sup. She thinks you are not hungry, and I wish you good-night." [She closes the little window and says gayly] Good-evening, Monsieur FÉliat.

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

ThÉrÈse [to FÉliat] I'll come back soon.

She goes out.

RenÉ [to Madame GuÉret] Now, Madame, you, Quick, Madame!

Madame GuÉret. Yes, yes. All right.

She plays a flourish of trumpets on the piano.

RenÉ. Splendid!

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

GuÉret [interrupting] She won't refuse, you may be sure.

Madame GuÉret [continuing]—we shall have to keep her with us. But I shall insist upon certain conditions.

GuÉret. What conditions?

Madame GuÉret. I won't have any scandals at Evreux.

GuÉret. There won't be any scandals.

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

GuÉret. What airs?

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

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

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

GuÉret. She's of age.

Madame GuÉret. A properly brought up young lady is never of age.

FÉliat. Perfectly true.

Madame GuÉret. And there must be a change in her way of dressing.

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

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

FÉliat. Of course.

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

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

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

GuÉret. Wouldn't it be better—

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

GuÉret. All right.

He goes out.

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

Madame GuÉret [absently] So glad. Were you speaking of having a notice of it in your paper?

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

Madame GuÉret [imploring] Could it be stopped?

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

Madame GuÉret. Nobody would know anything about it—

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

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

Madame GuÉret. Well, we'll say no more about it.

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

Madame GuÉret. No——only——[Hesitating] Some of our family are country people, you know. It would take me too long to explain it all to you. It doesn't matter. [With a change of tone] Then honestly you think ThÉrÈse has some little talent?

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

Madame GuÉret. Oh, I? I belong to another century. In my days it would have been considered a very curious thing if a young girl wrote novels. My brother feels this too. By the way, I have not introduced my brother to you. Monsieur FÉliat, of Evreux—Madame NÉrisse, editress of Feminine Art. Madame NÉrisse has been kind enough to help us with our little party. [To Madame NÉrisse] Yes—you were speaking about—what was it—this story that ThÉrÈse has written. No doubt your readers were indulgent to the work of a little amateur.

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

FÉliat. You'll publish her photograph?

Madame NÉrisse. In her dress as Kalekairi.

Madame GuÉret. In her dress as Kalekairi!

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

Madame GuÉret. Oh, please excuse me for keeping you.

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

She goes out.

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

FÉliat [shocked] Oh, I say, this is really—I must cough or something, and let them know I'm here. [He coughs] They've seen me. They're waving their hands—and—they 're going on just the same!

ThÉrÈse [to Lucienne] What is he doing?

Lucienne. What's the matter?

FÉliat. It is incredible!

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

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

Lucienne. Let's see.

FÉliat. Oh, don't look! [Suddenly stopping, half to himself] Though I must say—

ThÉrÈse [laughing] What must you say?

FÉliat. Nothing.

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

FÉliat. No, no, not as bad.

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

FÉliat. But that doesn't justify—

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

Lucienne. We're sharpening our weapons.

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

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse. Oh, experience! Well, you know—

Lucienne. Oh, experience!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse. Shall we say a safety valve?

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

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

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

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

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

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

FÉliat. I seem to have heard that before.

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

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

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

FÉliat [hardly able to contain himself] You are; indeed you are. It makes one shudder. Excuse me, I'm going to supper.

Lucienne. Let's all go together.

FÉliat. Thanks, I can find my way.

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

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

ThÉrÈse. You shocked the poor old boy.

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

ThÉrÈse. What's settled?

Lucienne. I'm engaged.

ThÉrÈse. You don't say so.

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

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

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

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

Lucienne. ThÉrÈse! Why I've just been talking to RenÉ. I never saw him so happy, nor so much in love.

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

Lucienne. Telling him what?

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

Lucienne. Lost all your money!

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

Lucienne. When?

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

Lucienne. What will you do?

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

Lucienne. You think he'll give you up?

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

Lucienne. Oh! poor ThÉrÈse! And you could play Barberine with a secret like that!

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

Lucienne. My dearest! And you love him so!

ThÉrÈse [much moved] Yes—oh! don't make me cry.

Lucienne. It might do you good!

ThÉrÈse. You know—[She breaks down a little]

Lucienne [tenderly] Yes—I know that you're good and brave.

ThÉrÈse. I shall have to be.

Lucienne. Then you'll break off the engagement?

ThÉrÈse. Yes. I shall never see him again.

Lucienne. Never see him again!

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

Lucienne. He'll be horribly unhappy.

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

Lucienne. Persuade him to!

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

Lucienne. How you love him!

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

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

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

Lucienne. But you have no money—

ThÉrÈse. I've not been any too happy here. You know they're—[She sees Madame GuÉret and whispers to Lucienne] Go now. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow. [Louder and gayly] Well, good-night, my dear. See you to-morrow at the Palais de Glace or at the Sorbonne! Good-night.

Lucienne. Good-night, ThÉrÈse.

Madame GuÉret [speaking through the door] Yes, she's here. Come in. [GuÉret and FÉliat come in] ThÉrÈse, we have something to say to you.

ThÉrÈse. Yes, godmamma.

Madame GuÉret. It's about something important; something very serious. Let us sit down.

GuÉret. You'll have to be brave, ThÉrÈse.

Madame GuÉret. We are ruined, and you are ruined too.

ThÉrÈse. Yes.

Madame GuÉret. Is that all you have to say?

ThÉrÈse. I knew it already.

Madame GuÉret. You knew it? Who told you?

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

Madame GuÉret. Well, I declare!

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

Madame GuÉret. You knew it! And you've had the strength, the—duplicity?

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

Madame GuÉret. And you were able to laugh and to act!

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

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

ThÉrÈse. I'm very sorry. But you—

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

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

Madame GuÉret [to her husband] You really might have given her time to ask us. [To ThÉrÈse] We take it that you have asked us, and we answer that we will keep you with us.

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

Madame GuÉret. We will keep you with us, but on certain conditions.

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

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

ThÉrÈse. But I am going to live in Paris.

GuÉret. Then it is I who do not understand.

ThÉrÈse. All the same—[A silence]

Madame GuÉret. I can hardly believe that you propose to live in Paris by yourself.

ThÉrÈse [simply] I do, godmamma.

FÉliat. Alone!

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

FÉliat. Nor do I. But no doubt you have reasons to give to your godfather and godmother. [He moves to go]

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

Madame GuÉret. I must confess to being extremely curious to hear these reasons.

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

Madame GuÉret. Angry! When have I ever been angry with you?

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

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

Madame GuÉret. Yes, indeed.

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

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse. Yes, godmamma.

Madame GuÉret. A young girl, all alone, in Paris! The thing is inconceivable.

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

ThÉrÈse. I'll work.

Madame GuÉret. You don't mean that seriously?

ThÉrÈse. Yes, godmamma.

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse. I'm sure it won't.

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

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

Madame GuÉret. I know you have a strong will of your own.

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

ThÉrÈse. I shall hire a little flat—or a room somewhere.

Madame GuÉret. Like a workgirl.

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

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

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse. All the same—

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

GuÉret. But your father left you in my care.

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

GuÉret. It's pretty easy to guess.

Madame GuÉret. Yes, indeed.

GuÉret. You would live with us.

Madame GuÉret [not very kindly] You would have a home.

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

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

ThÉrÈse. You mean I should do nothing.

GuÉret. Nothing! No, not nothing.

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

GuÉret. You were brought up to that.

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

GuÉret. Afterwards?

ThÉrÈse. How long would that last?

GuÉret. Until you marry.

ThÉrÈse. I shall never marry.

GuÉret. Why not?

ThÉrÈse [very gently] Oh, godfather, you know why not. I have no money. [A silence] So I'm going to try and get work.

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

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

FÉliat. Be a bluestocking?

ThÉrÈse. Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

Madame GuÉret. She's made up her mind, there's no use saying any more.

FÉliat. But I want to talk to her now. Will you be so good as to listen to me, Mademoiselle ThÉrÈse? [To Madame GuÉret] I wonder if I might be allowed to have a few minutes with her alone.

Madame GuÉret. Most willingly.

GuÉret [to his wife] Come, Marguerite.

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

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse. I'm grateful to you all.

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

ThÉrÈse. I know.

FÉliat. And—

ThÉrÈse [imploringly] Please, please, Monsieur FÉliat, don't say any more; what's the good of it?

FÉliat. I beg your pardon, my dear. I am a little upset. I was expecting—er, er—

ThÉrÈse. Expecting what?

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse. I can keep my tears to myself.

FÉliat. Yes——Oh, I——at least——

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

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

ThÉrÈse. I shan't change my mind.

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

ThÉrÈse. With all my heart.

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

ThÉrÈse. I'm extremely flattered.

FÉliat. Do you know that if—well, if you decide to marry—I might—

ThÉrÈse. But I've not decided to marry.

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

ThÉrÈse. I haven't the slightest intention of—

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

ThÉrÈse. I know them both.

FÉliat. Yes; but—

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

FÉliat. Certainly not.

ThÉrÈse. There, you see.

FÉliat. But you've not got two hundred thousand francs.

ThÉrÈse [without showing any anger or annoyance] The last thing I want is to be exacting. But really, Monsieur FÉliat, think for a minute. If I were to marry a man I could not possibly love, I should marry him for his money. [Looking straight at him] And in that case the only difference between me and the women I am not supposed to know anything about would be that a little ceremony had been performed over me and not over them. Don't you agree with me?

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse. It's sometimes an unhappy one. [A maid comes in bringing a card to ThÉrÈse, who says] Ask the lady kindly to wait a moment.

Maid. Yes, Mademoiselle. [The maid goes out]

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

ThÉrÈse. This very evening.

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

ThÉrÈse. You needn't trouble about that.

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

ThÉrÈse. I see.

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

ThÉrÈse [discouraged] Yes, yes; oh yes.

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

ThÉrÈse. I quite understand.

FÉliat. People would think very badly of you.

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

FÉliat. Then I may trust you?

ThÉrÈse. You may trust me.

FÉliat [fatherly and approving] Thank you. [He holds out his hand] ThÉrÈse, you're—well—you're splendid. I like courage. I wish you success with all my heart. I really wish you success. But if, in the future, you should want a friend—the very strongest may find themselves in that position—let me be that friend.

ThÉrÈse [taking the hand which FÉliat holds out to her] I'm grateful, very grateful, Monsieur. Thank you. But I hope I shall be able to earn my own living. That is all I want.

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

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

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

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

Madame NÉrisse [showing ThÉrÈse the photographs] This is more brilliant, that's more dreamy. I like this one. What do you think?

ThÉrÈse. I like this one too.

Madame NÉrisse. Then that's settled. [Putting down the photographs] What a success you had this evening.

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

Madame NÉrisse. Anything I can do for you?

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

Madame NÉrisse. I will indeed.

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

Madame NÉrisse. Dear ThÉrÈse, ask Madame GuÉret to tell you what I said to her just now about that very thing.

ThÉrÈse. Then you think my collaboration might be really useful to Feminine Art?

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

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

Madame NÉrisse. As many as you can.

ThÉrÈse. And—[She hesitates a moment] and would you pay me the same price for them as for the one you've just published?

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

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

Madame NÉrisse. What an idea!

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

Madame NÉrisse. What do you mean? A necessity? Monsieur GuÉret—. But I mustn't be inquisitive.

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

Madame NÉrisse [with less confidence] Certainly.

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

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

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

Madame NÉrisse [doubtfully] Perhaps not, but—the Directors like to give each number a character of its own. It's a thing they're very particular about.

ThÉrÈse. I could write about very different subjects.

Madame NÉrisse. I know you could, but it would be always the same signature.

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

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

ThÉrÈse. We'll try and manage it.

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

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

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

ThÉrÈse [in consternation] Enemies? How do you mean enemies?

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

ThÉrÈse [who has gone quite white] Yes, I see.

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

ThÉrÈse. Of course I do. But—

Madame NÉrisse. We want to start a really smart, respectable woman's paper; of course without sacrificing our principles. Our title by itself proves that. It's to be called Woman Free.

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

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

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

Madame NÉrisse. And thank you for the way you take this. Good-bye for the present.

She goes out. ThÉrÈse stands thinking for a moment, then RenÉ comes in. He is very much upset.