Eugne Brieux

Scene:—A sitting-room at the offices of "Woman Free." The door at the back opens into an entrance hall. The general editorial office is to the right, Monsieur NÉrisse's room to the left. At the back, also to the left, is another door opening into a smaller sitting-room. There are papers and periodicals upon the tables.

The curtain rises upon Monsieur Mafflu. He is a man of about fifty, dressed for ease rather than elegance, and a little vulgar. He turns over the papers on the tables, studies himself in the mirror, and readjusts his tie. Madame NÉrisse then comes in. She has Monsieur Mafflu's visiting card in her hand. They bow to each other.

Monsieur Mafflu. My card will have informed you that I am Monsieur Mafflu.

Madame NÉrisse. Yes. Won't you sit down?

Monsieur Mafflu. I am your new landlord, Madame. I have just bought this house. I've retired from business. I was afraid I shouldn't have enough to do, so I've bought some houses. I am my own agent. It gives me something to do. If a tenant wants repairs done, I go and see him. I love a bit of a gossip; it passes away an hour or so. In that way I make people's acquaintance—nice people. I didn't buy any of the houses where poor people live, though they're better business. I should never have had the heart to turn out the ones that didn't pay, and I should have been obliged to start an agent, and all my plan would have been upset. [A pause] Now, Madame, for what brought me here. I hope you'll forgive me for the trouble I'm giving you—and I'm sorry—but I've come to give you notice.

Madame NÉrisse. Indeed! May I ask what your reason is?

Monsieur Mafflu. I am just on the point of letting the second floor. My future tenant has young daughters.

Madame NÉrisse. I'm afraid I don't see what that has got to do with it.

Monsieur Mafflu. Well—he'll live only in a house in which all the tenants are private families.

Madame NÉrisse. But we make no noise. We are not in any way objectionable.

Monsieur Mafflu. Oh, no, no; not at all.

Madame NÉrisse. Well, then?

Monsieur Mafflu. How shall I explain? I'm certain you're perfectly all right, and all the ladies who are with you here too, but I've had to give in that house property is depreciated by people that work; all the more if the people are ladies, and most of all if they're ladies who write books or bring out a newspaper with such a name as Woman Free. People who know nothing about it think from such a name—oh, bless you, I understand all that's rubbish, but—well—the letting value of the house, you see. [He laughs]

Madame NÉrisse. The sight of women who work for their living offends these people, does it?

Monsieur Mafflu. Yes, that's the idea. A woman who works is always a little—hum—well—you know what I mean. Of course I mean nothing to annoy you.

Madame NÉrisse. You mean that your future tenants don't want their young ladies to have our example before them.

Monsieur Mafflu. No! That's just what they don't. Having independent sort of people like you about makes 'em uneasy. For me, you know, I wouldn't bother about it—only—of course you don't see it this way, but you're odd—off the common somehow. You make one feel queer.

Madame NÉrisse. But there are plenty of women who work.

Monsieur Mafflu. Oh, common women, yes; oh, that's all right.

Madame NÉrisse. If you have children, they have nurses and governesses.

Monsieur Mafflu. Oh, those. They work, of course. They work for me, that's quite different. But you—What bothers these ladies, Madame Mafflu and all the others, is that you're in our own class. As for me I stick to the old saying, "Woman's place is the home."

Madame NÉrisse. But there are women who have got no home.

Monsieur Mafflu. That's their own fault.

Madame NÉrisse. Very often it's not at all their own fault. Where are they to go? Into the streets?

Monsieur Mafflu. I know, I know. There's all that. Still women can work without being feminists.

Madame NÉrisse. Have you any idea what you mean by "feminist"?

Monsieur Mafflu. Not very clear. I know the people I live among don't know everything. I grant you all that. But Woman Free! Woman Free! Madame Mafflu wants to know what liberty—or what liberties—singular or plural; do you take me?—ha! ha! There might be questions asked.

Madame NÉrisse [laughing] You must do me the honor of introducing me to Madame Mafflu. She must be an interesting woman. I'll go and see her.

Monsieur Mafflu. Oh, do! But not on a Wednesday.

Madame NÉrisse. Why not?

Monsieur Mafflu. 'Cos Wednesday's her day.

Madame NÉrisse [gayly] I must give it up, then, as I'm free only on Wednesdays.

Monsieur Mafflu. I should like her to see for herself how nice you are. Her friends have been talking to her. They thought that you—well—they say feminist women are like the women were in the time of the Commune. They said perhaps you'd even go on a deputation!

Madame NÉrisse. You wouldn't approve of that?

Monsieur Mafflu. Oh, talkin' of that, one of my friends has an argument nobody can answer. "Let these women," he says, "let 'em do their military service."

Madame NÉrisse. Well, you tell him that if men make wars, women make soldiers; and get killed at that work too, sometimes.

Monsieur Mafflu [after reflecting for some moments] I'll tell him, but he won't understand.

Madame NÉrisse. Well, no matter. I won't detain you any longer, Monsieur Mafflu.

Monsieur Mafflu. Oh! Madame. I should like to stay and talk to you for hours.

Madame NÉrisse [laughing] You're too kind.

Monsieur Mafflu. Then you forgive me?

Madame NÉrisse [going to the door with him] What would one not forgive you?

Monsieur Mafflu [turning back] I say—

Madame NÉrisse. No, no. Good-bye, Monsieur.

Monsieur Mafflu. Good-bye, Madame.

He goes out.

Madame NÉrisse [to herself] One really couldn't be angry!

ThÉrÈse comes in with a little moleskin bag on her arm. She is in a light dress, is very gay, and looks younger.

ThÉrÈse. Good-morning, Madame. I'm so sorry to be late. I met Monsieur FÉliat, my godmother's brother.

Madame NÉrisse. How is Madame GuÉret?

ThÉrÈse. Very well, he says.

Madame NÉrisse. And does Monsieur GuÉret like his new home?

ThÉrÈse. Yes, very much.

Madame NÉrisse. And Madame GuÉret?

ThÉrÈse. She seems to be quite happy.

Madame NÉrisse. What a good thing. Here's the letter Monsieur NÉrisse has written for you to that editor. [She hands her an unsealed letter]

ThÉrÈse. Oh, thank you!

Madame NÉrisse. Did you find out when he could see you?

ThÉrÈse. To-morrow at Two O'clock. Can you spare me then?

Madame NÉrisse. Yes, certainly.

ThÉrÈse. Thank you.

Madame NÉrisse. Why don't you read your letter? You see it's open.

ThÉrÈse. I'll shut it up.

Madame NÉrisse. Read it.

ThÉrÈse. Shall I?

Madame NÉrisse. Yes, do.

ThÉrÈse [reading] Oh, it's too much. This is too kind. With a letter like this my article is certain to be read. Monsieur NÉrisse is kind! Will you tell him how very grateful I am?

Madame NÉrisse [coldly] Yes. [She makes an effort to be kind] I'll tell him, of course. But I dictated the letter myself. Monsieur NÉrisse only signed it. [She rings]

ThÉrÈse. Then I have one more kindness to thank you for.

Madame NÉrisse [to the page boy] I expect Monsieur CazarÈs.

Boy. Monsieur—?

Madame NÉrisse. Our old editor—Monsieur CazarÈs. You know him very well.

Boy. Oh, yes, Madame, yes!

Madame NÉrisse. He will have another gentleman with him. You must show them straight into Monsieur NÉrisse's room and let me know.

Boy. Yes, Madame.

During this conversation ThÉrÈse has taken off her hat and put it into a cupboard. She has opened a green cardboard box and put her gloves and veil into it—folding the latter carefully—also Monsieur NÉrisse's letter. She has taken out a little mirror, given some touches to her hair, and has put it back. Finally she closes the box.

Madame NÉrisse. Monsieur CazarÈs is bringing us a new backer. We're going to make changes in the paper. I'll tell you all about it presently. [With a change of tone] Tell me, what was there between you and Monsieur CazarÈs?

ThÉrÈse [simply] Nothing at all.

Madame NÉrisse. Isn't he just a wee bit in love with you?

ThÉrÈse. I haven't the least idea. He's said nothing to me about it, if he is.

Madame NÉrisse. He's always behaved quite nicely to you?

ThÉrÈse. Always.

Madame NÉrisse. And Monsieur NÉrisse?

ThÉrÈse. Monsieur NÉrisse? I don't understand.

Madame NÉrisse. Oh, yes, you do. Has he ever made love to you?

ThÉrÈse. [hurt] Oh, Madame!

Madame NÉrisse. [looking closely at her and then taking both her hands affectionately] Forgive me, dear child. I know how good and straight you are. You mustn't mind the things I say. Sometimes I'm horrid I know. I have an idea that Monsieur NÉrisse is not as fond of me as he used to be.

ThÉrÈse. Oh, indeed that's only your fancy.

Madame NÉrisse. I hope so. I'm a bit nervous I think. I've such a lot of trouble with the paper just now. It's not going well. [Gesture of ThÉrÈse] We're going to try something fresh. This time I think it'll be all right. You'll see it will. [A pause] What's that? Did he call? I'm sure that idiot of a boy hasn't made up his fire, and he'd never think of it. He's like a great baby. [As she goes towards Monsieur NÉrisse's door—the door on the left—the door on the right opens, and Mademoiselle GrÉgoire comes in. She has taken off her hat. Madame NÉrisse turns to her] Why, it's Mademoiselle GrÉgoire! You know, Dr. GrÉgoire! [To Mademoiselle GrÉgoire] This is Mademoiselle ThÉrÈse. [They shake hands] I spoke to you about her. She'll explain everything to you in no time. I'll come back very soon and introduce you to the others. Excuse me for a minute. [She goes out to the left]

ThÉrÈse. [pleasantly] I really don't know what Madame NÉrisse wants me to explain to you. You know our paper?

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. No, I've never seen it.

ThÉrÈse. Never seen it! Never seen Woman Free?

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Never. I only know it by name.

ThÉrÈse. How odd! Well, here's a copy. It's in two parts, you see, and they're quite different from each other. Here the doctrine, there the attractions. Madame NÉrisse thought of that.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire [reading as she turns over the leaves] "Votes for Women."

ThÉrÈse [reading with her] "Votes for Women," "An End of Slavery." And then, on here, lighter things.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Frivolities?

ThÉrÈse. Frivolities. A story. "Beauty Notes."

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire [reading and laughing a little] "The Doctor's Page."

ThÉrÈse. Oh, too bad! But it wasn't I who first said frivolities!

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire [still laughing] I shall bear up. And what comes after "The Doctor's Page"?

ThÉrÈse. "Beauty Notes" and "Gleanings."

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Gleanings?

ThÉrÈse. Yes. It's a column where real and imaginary subscribers exchange notes about cookery receipts, and housekeeping tips, and hair lotions, and that sort of thing.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Quite a good thing.

ThÉrÈse. I most confess it's the best read part.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. I'm not at all surprised.

ThÉrÈse. I'm afraid we can't conceal from ourselves that Monsieur NÉrisse has not altogether succeeded. Each of us is inclined to like only her own section. We've a girl here, Caroline Legrand, one of the staff, who's tremendously go-a-head. You should hear her on the subject of "Soap of the Sylphs" and "Oriental Balm."

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. It makes her furious?

ThÉrÈse. She's a sort of rampageous saint; ferocious and affectionate by turns, a bit ridiculous perhaps, but delightful and generous. She's so simple nasty people could easily make a fool of her, but all nice people like her.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Shall I have much to do with her?

ThÉrÈse. Not much. You'll be under Mademoiselle de Meuriot, and you'll be lucky. She's a dear. She's been sacrificing herself all her life. She's my great friend—the only one I have.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire [taking up the paper again] But how's this? Your contributors are all men. Gabriel de—, Camille de—, Claud de—, RenÉ de—, Marcel de—.

ThÉrÈse. Well! I never noticed that before. They're the pen-names of our writers.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. All men's names?

ThÉrÈse. Yes. People still think more of men as writers. You see they are names that might be either a man's or a woman's. Camille, RenÉ, Gabriel.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. There's only one woman's name—Vicomtesse de Renneville.

ThÉrÈse. That's snobbery! It's Madame NÉrisse's pen-name.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Well, I suppose it's good business.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot comes in at the back, bringing a packet of letters.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. The post's come, ThÉrÈse.

ThÉrÈse. This is Mademoiselle de Meuriot. [Introducing Mademoiselle GrÉgoire] Our new contributor.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. You're welcome, Mademoiselle.

The door on the left opens and Madame NÉrisse appears backwards, still talking to Monsieur NÉrisse, who is invisible in the inner room.

Madame NÉrisse. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire looks up at Madame NÉrisse.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot and ThÉrÈse turn away their heads to hide their smiles; finally Madame NÉrisse shuts the door, not having noticed anything, and comes forward. She speaks to Mademoiselle GrÉgoire.

Madame NÉrisse. Come, my dear. I'll introduce you to the others. [To Mademoiselle de Meuriot] Ah! the post has come. Open the letters, ThÉrÈse, will you?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Yes, we will.

Madame NÉrisse [at the door on the right, to Mademoiselle GrÉgoire] You first. [They go out]

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [smiling] I think our new friend was a bit amused. She's pretty.

ThÉrÈse. Yes, and she looks capable.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Let's get to work.

She sits down, at a desk. ThÉrÈse sits near her at the end of the same desk. During all that follows ThÉrÈse opens envelopes with a letter opener and passes them to Mademoiselle de Meuriot, who takes the letters out, glances at them, and makes three or four little piles of them.

ThÉrÈse. Here! [Holding out the first letter]

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [as she works] And you? How are you this morning? [Looking closely at her and shaking a finger] You're tired, little girl. You sat up working last night.

ThÉrÈse. I wanted to finish copying out my manuscript. It took me ages, because I wanted to make it as clear as print.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [gravely] You know you mustn't be ill, ThÉrÈse.

ThÉrÈse. How good you are, Mademoiselle, and how lucky I am to have you for a friend. What should I do without you?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. How about your godmother?

ThÉrÈse. I didn't get on with her. She never could hide her dislike for me, and it burst out in the end. When she saw that in spite of everything she could say I was going to leave her, she let herself go and made a dreadful scene. And, what was worse, my good, kind godfather joined in! It seemed as if they thought my wanting to be independent was a direct insult to them. What a lot of letters there are to-day.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. It's the renewal of the subscriptions.

ThÉrÈse. Oh, is that it? So you see we parted, not exactly enemies—but, well—on our dignity. We write little letters to one another now, half cold and half affectionate. I tell you, without you I should be quite alone.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Not more alone than I am.

ThÉrÈse. I have someone to talk to now and tell my little worries to. It's not that, even. One always finds people ready to listen to you and pity you, but what one doesn't find is people one can tell one's most impossible dreams to and feel sure one won't be laughed at. That's real friendship. [She stops working as she continues] To dare to think out loud before another person and let her see the gods of one's secret idolatry, and to be sure one's not exposing one's precious things to blasphemy. How I love you for being like you are and for caring for me a little. [She resumes her work]

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. I don't care for you a little, ThÉrÈse! I care for you very much indeed. I like you because you're brave and hurl yourself against obstacles like a little battering ram, and because you're straight and honest and one can depend on you.

ThÉrÈse [who can't get open the letter she holds] Please pass me the scissors. Thanks. [She cuts open the envelope] I might have been all those things, and it would have been no good at all, if you hadn't been able to see them.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Remember that in being friends with you I get as much as I give. My people were very religious and very proud of their title. I made up my mind to leave home, but since then I've been quite alone—alone for thirty years. I'm selfish in my love for you now. I've had so little of that sort of happiness.

ThÉrÈse. You've done so much for women. You've helped so many.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [touching her piles of letters] Here's another who won't renew.

ThÉrÈse. What will Madame NÉrisse say? [Continuing] You know, Mademoiselle, it's not only success that I want. I have a great ambition. I should like to think that because I've lived there might be a little less suffering in the world. That's the sort of thing that I can say to nobody but you.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [tenderly] ThÉrÈse has an ardent soul.

ThÉrÈse. Yes, ThÉrÈse has an ardent soul. It was you who said that about me first, and I think I deserve it. [Changing her tone] Here's the subscriber's book. [She hands the book and continues in her former voice] Like Guyan, I have more tears than I need to spend on my own sufferings, so I can give the spare ones to other people. And not only tears, but courage and consolation that I have no opportunity of using up myself. Do you understand what I mean?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Yes, I understand, my dear. I see my own youth over again. [Sadly] Oh, I hope that you—but I don't want to rouse up those old ghosts; I should only distress you. Perhaps lives like mine are necessary, if it's only to throw into relief lives that are more beautiful than mine. Keep your lovely dreams. [A silence] When I think that instead of being an old maid I might have been the mother of a girl like you!

ThÉrÈse [leaning towards her and kissing her hair] Don't cry.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [tears in her eyes and a smile upon her lips] No, no, I won't; and when I think that somewhere or other there's a man you love!

ThÉrÈse [smiling] Some day or other I must tell you a whole lot of things about RenÉ.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Have you seen him again?

ThÉrÈse. Yes.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. But you were supposed not to meet any more.

ThÉrÈse [with a mutinous little smile] Yes, we were supposed not to meet any more. One says those things and then one meets all the same. If RenÉ had gone on being the feeble and lamentable young man that I parted from the Barberine evening, I should perhaps have never seen him again. You don't know what my RenÉ has done, do you now?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. No.

ThÉrÈse. I've been looking forward so to telling you. [Eagerly] Well, he's quite changed. He's become a different man. Oh, he's not a marvel of energy even yet, but he's not the helpless youth who was still feeding out of his father's hands at twenty-five.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. And how has this great improvement come about?

ThÉrÈse [looking at her knowingly] You'll make me blush.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Was it for love of you?

ThÉrÈse. I think it was for love of me. Let me tell you. He wanted to see me again, and he waited at the door when I was coming out from my work, just as if I was a little milliner's assistant. And then he came back another evening, and then another. While we were walking from here to my place we chattered, and chattered, and chattered. We had more to say to each other than we'd ever had before, and I began to realize that his want of will and energy was more the result of always hanging on to his people than anything else. Then there came a crash. [She laughs] A most fortunate crash. His father formally ordered him not to see me again; threatened, if he did, to stop his allowance. What do you think my RenÉ did? He sent back the cheque his people had just given him with quite a nice, civil, respectful letter. Then he left his office and got a place in a business house at an absurdly small salary, and he's been working there ever since. [Laughing] He shocked all the other young men in the office by the way he stuck to it. He got gradually interested in what he had to do. He read it all up; the heads of the firm noticed him and were civil to him, and now they've sent him on important business to Tunis. And that's what he's done all for love of me! Now, don't you think I ought to care for him a little? Don't you?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Yes, my dear. But then if he's in Tunis?

ThÉrÈse. Oh, he'll come back.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. And when will the wedding be?

ThÉrÈse. He's sure his people will give in in the end if he can make some money. We shall wait.

The page boy comes in with seven or eight round parcels in his arms.

Boy. Here are this morning's manuscripts.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Put them with the others.

Boy. There was one lady was quite determined to see you herself. She said her article was most particular. It's among that lot.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Very well.

Boy. Mademoiselle Caroline Legrand is coming.

He opens the door and stands back to allow Caroline Legrand to come in. She is dressed in a long brown tailor-made overcoat and a white waistcoat, with a yellow necktie.

Caroline Legrand. Good-morning, Meuriot.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Good-morning, Caroline Legrand. [They shake hands]

Caroline Legrand. It seems there's something new going on here.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. I believe there is, but I know nothing about it.

Caroline Legrand. I expect the paper's not going well, the jam hasn't hidden the pill. Even Madame NÉrisse's thirtieth article upon divorce at the desire of one party hasn't succeeded in stirring up enthusiasm this time. She's been preaching up free love, but she really started the paper only because she thought it would help her to get the law changed and allow her to marry her "dearest."

ThÉrÈse. Mademoiselle Legrand, I have some news that will please you.

Caroline Legrand. Are all the men dead?

ThÉrÈse. No, not yet; but I've heard that in a small country town they're starting a Woman's Trade Union.

Caroline Legrand. It won't succeed. Women are too stupid.

ThÉrÈse. They've opened a special workshop there, and they're going to have work that's always been done by men done by women.

Caroline Legrand. That's splendid! A woman worker the more is a slave the less.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [gravely] Are you quite sure of that?

Caroline Legrand. Oh, don't you misunderstand me! [Forcibly] Listen to this. A time will come when people will be as ashamed of having made women work as they are ashamed now of having kept slaves. But, until then—

ThÉrÈse. The employer is rather disturbed about it.

Caroline Legrand. He's quite right. Very soon there'll be a fierce reaction among the men about this cheap women's labor. There's going to be a new sex struggle—the struggle for bread. Man will use all his strength and all his cruelty to defend himself. There's a time coming when gallantry and chivalry will go by the board, I can tell you.

Madame NÉrisse comes in.

Madame NÉrisse. Oh, good-morning, Legrand. I'm glad you're here, I've been wanting to ask your advice about a new idea I want to start in Woman Free. A correspondence about getting up a league of society women—

Caroline Legrand. What about the others?

Madame NÉrisse [continuing, without attending to her]—and smart people, who will undertake not to wear ornaments in their hats made of the wings or the plumage of birds.

Caroline Legrand. You're giving up Woman Free for Birds Free, then?

Madame NÉrisse. What do you mean?

Caroline Legrand. You'd better make a league to do away with hats altogether as a protest against the sweating of the women who stitch the straw at famine prices and make the ribbon at next to nothing. I shall be more concerned for the fate of the sparrows when I haven't got to concern myself about the fate of sweated women.

Madame NÉrisse. Well, of course. That's the article we've got to write.

Caroline Legrand. Of course.

Madame NÉrisse. We'll write it in the form of a letter to a member of parliament—it had better be a man, because we're going to put him in the wrong—a member of parliament who wants to form the league I suggested. What you said about the sparrows will be a splendid tag at the end. Will you write it?

Caroline Legrand. Rather! It's lucky you don't stick to your ideas very obstinately, because they can sometimes be improved upon. I think I shall write your paper for you in future.

Madame NÉrisse. Go along and send me in Mademoiselle GrÉgoire and Madame Chanteuil. They'll bother you, and I want them here.

Caroline Legrand. To write about "Soap of the Sylphs." I know.

Madame NÉrisse. She's a little mad, but she really has good ideas sometimes.

Boy [to Madame NÉrisse] The gentlemen are there, Monsieur CazarÈs and another gentleman.

Madame NÉrisse. Are they with Monsieur NÉrisse?

Boy. Yes, Madame.

Madame NÉrisse. Very well, I'll go. [The boy goes out. She speaks to the others] Divide the work between you. [To Madame Chanteuil and Mademoiselle GrÉgoire, who come in from the right] There's lots of work to be done. [She goes out to the left]

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. We'd better sit down. [She sits down and says what follows whilst they are taking their places round the table. She takes up the first letter] This is for the advertising department. Is Mademoiselle Baron here?

ThÉrÈse. No, poor little thing. She's trudging round Paris to try and get hold of a few advertisements.

Madame Chanteuil. It's a dreadful job, trying to get advertisements for a paper that three-quarters of the people she goes to have never heard of. It gives me the shivers to remember what I had to go through myself over that job.

ThÉrÈse. And poor little Baron is so shy!

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. She earned only fifty francs all last month.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. I know her, I met her lately; she told me she was in luck, that she had an appointment with the manager of the Institut de Jouvence.

Madame Chanteuil. And she thinks she's in luck!

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. It appears that that's a place where you can do quite good business.

Madame Chanteuil [gravely] Yes, young women can do business there if they're pretty; but have you any idea what price they pay? Nothing would induce me to put my foot inside the place again.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Oh, the poor little girl! Oh, dear! [A pause. She begins to sort the letters]

ThÉrÈse [half to herself] It seems to me our name Woman Free is horrible irony.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [holding a letter in her hand] Oh, Chanteuil, what have you done? Here's somebody perfectly furious. She says she asked you to give her some information in the beauty column. [Reading] It was something she was mistaken about. She wrote under the name of "Always Young," and apparently you've answered "Always Young is a mistake." She thinks you did it to insult her. You must write her a letter of apologies.

Madame Chanteuil. Yes, Mademoiselle.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [holding up another letter] "Little Questions of Sentiment." This is for you, ThÉrÈse. [She reads] "I feel so sad because I am getting old," etc. Answer, "Why this sadness—"

ThÉrÈse. "White hairs are a crown of—" [She writes a few words in pencil upon the letter which Mademoiselle de Meuriot has passed to her]

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. "Astral Influences." [Looking round] Who is "Astral Influences"?

Madame Chanteuil. I am.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [passing her letters] Here are two, three—one without a post office order. Put that one straight into the waste paper basket. Remember that you must always promise them luck, with little difficulties to give success more flavor. And be sure to tell them they're full of good qualities, with some little amiable weaknesses and the sort of defects one enjoys boasting about. [Going on reading] "About using whites of eggs to take the sharpness out of sorrel," "To take out ink-stains." These are for you, dear.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Yes. [She takes the letters] I didn't think of that when I took my degree.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [continuing] "Stoutness"; that's for you too. [Glancing again at the letter] What does this one want? [Fluttering the leaves] Four pages; ah, here we are—"A slender figure—smaller hips—am not too stout anywhere else." That's for the doctor. [She gives the letter to Mademoiselle GrÉgoire with several others]

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Iodiform soap.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. My dear, not at all, "Soap of the Sylphs."

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. But that's exactly the same thing.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. I know that. But it sounds so different. [Taking another letter] "A red nose"—

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. Lemon juice.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [continuing] "Superfluous hairs." Be sure to recommend the cream that gives us advertisements; don't make any mistake about that. "Black specks on the chin," "Wrinkles round the eyes."

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. There's no cure for that.

Madame Chanteuil. Tell her to go to bed early and alone.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. That's too easy, she wouldn't believe in it. Find something else. [Continuing to read] "To make them firm without enlarging them"; that's for you too. And all the rest I think. "To whiten the teeth," "To make the hair lighter," "To give firmness to the bust."

Madame Chanteuil. They're always asking that.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [reading] "To enlarge the eyes," "get rid of wrinkles"—"and double chins"—"a clear complexion"—"to keep young"—ouf! That's all. No, here's one that wants white arms. They're all alike, poor women!

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. And all that to please men.

Madame Chanteuil. To please a man more than some other woman, and so to be fed, lodged, and kept by him.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire [between her teeth] Kept is the right word.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Ah, here's Mademoiselle Baron. [To Mademoiselle Baron] Well? What luck?

Mademoiselle Baron [miserably] There's no one in the office. I've got the signed contract for the advertisements of the Institut de Jouvence. Now I must go on to the printers. Here it is. Good-bye. [A silence]

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [in a suffocated voice] Good-bye, my dear.

ThÉrÈse [speaking with great emotion] Poor, poor little thing!

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [also quite overcome, slowly] Perhaps she has someone at home who's hungry.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire. I must go and see to the "Doctor's Page."

Madame Chanteuil. And I to the "Gleaner's Column."

NÉrisse [speaking back to the people he has left in his office in an irritated voice] Do as you like. I've told you my opinion. I wash my hands of it. When your draft is ready show it to me. [He shuts the door. ThÉrÈse, when she hears his voice, has gathered up her papers and is making for the door on the right. He calls her back] Mademoiselle!

ThÉrÈse. Monsieur!

NÉrisse. Listen. I have something to say to you. [ThÉrÈse returns] Did Madame NÉrisse give you the letter of introduction I wrote for you?

ThÉrÈse. Yes, Monsieur. Please forgive me for not having thanked you before.

NÉrisse. It's nothing.

ThÉrÈse. Indeed it's a great deal.

NÉrisse. Nothing.

ThÉrÈse. Yes, I'm sure to be received quite differently with that letter from what I should be without it.

NÉrisse. I can give you any number of letters like that. May I?

ThÉrÈse [coldly] No, thank you.

NÉrisse. You won't let me?

ThÉrÈse. No.

NÉrisse. Why?

ThÉrÈse. You know very well why.

NÉrisse. You're still angry with me. You do yourself harm by the way you treat me, you do indeed. Listen, this is the sort of thing. Moranville, the editor of the review I was talking about, is going to meet me at my restaurant after dinner. I know he wants just such stories as you write. But Moranville reads only the manuscripts of people he knows—he has a craze about it. Well, I hardly dare propose to you a thing which nevertheless is perfectly natural among colleagues, to come and dine with me first and meet him after. I hardly like—[ThÉrÈse draws herself up] You see, I'm right. You don't trust me.

ThÉrÈse. On the contrary, I'll go gladly. Madame NÉrisse will be with you of course?

NÉrisse [annoyed] Madame NÉrisse! Nonsense! Do you suppose I drag her everywhere I go? Say no more about it. Whatever I say will only make you suspicious. [With a sigh] All this misunderstanding and suspicion is horrible to me. How stupid the world is! There are times when I feel disgusted with everything, myself included! I'm getting old. I'm a failure. I'm losing my time and wasting my life over this ridiculous paper, which will never be anything but an obscure rag. I shall have done for myself soon.

ThÉrÈse [awkwardly, for something to say] Don't say that.

NÉrisse. Yes, I shall. I might have a chance of saving myself yet if I took things energetically and got free of the whole thing. But I should have to be quick about it. [A silence. ThÉrÈse does not know what to say and does not dare to leave the room] I'm so low—so unhappy!

ThÉrÈse. So unhappy?

NÉrisse. Yes. [Another silence. Madame NÉrisse comes in and looks at them pointedly] Are they gone?

Madame NÉrisse. Yes, they're gone.

NÉrisse. Is it all settled?

Madame NÉrisse. Yes. I am to meet them at the bank at four. But they wouldn't give way on the question of reducing expenses as regards the contributors.

NÉrisse. And the dates of publication?

Madame NÉrisse. We are to come out fortnightly instead of weekly. [Indicating the door on the right] You must go and speak to them.

NÉrisse. Is ThÉrÈse's salary to be reduced too?

Madame NÉrisse. It would be impossible to make distinctions.

NÉrisse. Difficult, yes. Still—I think one might have managed to do something for her.

Madame NÉrisse. I cannot see how she differs from the others. Can you?

NÉrisse. Oh, well—say no more about it.

Madame NÉrisse. That will be best. [He goes out to the right. To herself] I should think so indeed! [To ThÉrÈse] While Monsieur NÉrisse was talking to the other man I had a chat with Monsieur CazarÈs. He was talking about you. He's a nice fellow, and it's quite a good family you know. He's steady and fairly well off—very well off.

ThÉrÈse [laughing] You talk as if you were offering me a husband!

NÉrisse. And what would you say supposing he had asked me to sound you?

ThÉrÈse. I should say that I was very much obliged, but that I decline the honor.

NÉrisse. What's wrong with him?

ThÉrÈse. Nothing.

Madame NÉrisse. Well then?

ThÉrÈse. You can't marry upon that.

Madame NÉrisse. Have you absolutely made up your mind?

ThÉrÈse. Absolutely.

Madame NÉrisse. I think you're making a mistake. I think it all the more because this chance comes just at a time—well, you'll understand what I mean when I've told you something that I have to say to you as manageress of Woman Free. It's this. You know that in spite of all we could do we've had to hunt about for more capital. We've found some, but we've had to submit to very severe conditions. The most important is that they insist upon a stringent cutting down of expenses. Instead of coming out every week, Woman Free will be a fortnightly in future, and we've been obliged to consent to reducing the salaries of the contributors in proportion.

ThÉrÈse. How much will they be reduced?

Madame NÉrisse. In proportion I tell you. They'll be cut down by one half.

ThÉrÈse. And I shall not have enough to live upon even in the simplest way.

Madame NÉrisse. That was exactly what I said to them. And the work will not be the same.

ThÉrÈse. My work will not be the same?

Madame NÉrisse. No; you will be obliged to work at night.

ThÉrÈse. At night?

Madame NÉrisse. Yes.

ThÉrÈse. But then I shall be free all day.

Madame NÉrisse. No, you won't. In the daytime you will have to take charge of the business part of the paper, and in the evening too your work will not be purely literary, but more of an administrative character.

ThÉrÈse. It appears to me that I'm asked to accept a smaller salary and to do double work for it.

Madame NÉrisse. I am conveying to you the offers of the new Directors; if they don't suit you, you have only to refuse them.

ThÉrÈse. Of course I refuse them, and you may say to the people who have made them that they must be shameful sweaters to dare to offer women salaries that leave them no choice between starvation and degradation.

Madame NÉrisse. Those are strong words, my dear, and you seem to forget very quickly—

ThÉrÈse [softening] Yes. Oh, I beg your pardon. But think for a minute, Madame, and you'll forgive me for being angry. I hardly know what I'm saying. [Madame NÉrisse half turns away] Listen, oh listen! Forget what I said just now; I'll explain to you. I accept the reduction of salary. I'll manage. I'll get my expenses down. Only I can't consent to give up all my time. You know I have some work in hand; you know I have a big undertaking to which I've given all my life. I've told you about it, you know about that. You know I can only stand my loneliness and everything because of the hope I have about this. If people take all my time, it's the same as if they killed me. I beg you, I implore you, get them to leave me my evenings free.

Madame NÉrisse. It can't be done.

ThÉrÈse [pulling herself together] Very well, that's settled. I will go at the end of the month; that's to say to-morrow.

Madame NÉrisse. Take a little time to consider it.

ThÉrÈse. I have considered it. They propose that I should commit suicide. I say no!

Madame NÉrisse. I'm sorry, truly sorry. [She rings. While she waits for the bell to be answered, she looks searchingly at ThÉrÈse, who does not notice it. To the page boy who comes in] Go and call me a taxi, but first say to Monsieur NÉrisse—

Boy. Monsieur NÉrisse has just gone out, Madame.

Madame NÉrisse. Are you quite sure?

Boy. I called him a taxi.

Madame NÉrisse. Very well, you can go. [To ThÉrÈse] I'll ask you for your final answer this evening. [She hands her two large books] If you make up your mind to stay, make me these two bibliographies.

Mademoiselle GrÉgoire [speaking above the din] Good-bye, all. [She goes to the small salon from which she originally came in, and during the conversation that follows comes in putting on her hat, and goes out unnoticed at the back]

ThÉrÈse. Well, what do you think of this?

Madame Chanteuil and Caroline Legrand [together] It's an insult.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. You must try and keep quiet. [To ThÉrÈse] What shall you do?

ThÉrÈse. I shall leave.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. You ought to stay.

Madame Chanteuil. No, ThÉrÈse is right. We must all leave.

ThÉrÈse. We must leave to-morrow—no, this evening.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [quietly] Do you think that you'll be able to make better terms anywhere else?

ThÉrÈse. That won't be difficult.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. You think so?

ThÉrÈse. Rather.

Caroline Legrand. Where, for instance?

ThÉrÈse. There are other papers in Paris besides this one.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Then you know a lot of others that pay better?

ThÉrÈse. One will be enough for me.

Caroline Legrand. And you think you'll find a place straight off? You know there are other people—

ThÉrÈse. I'll give lessons. I took my degree.

Caroline Legrand. Much good may it do you.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. You think you'll be a governess? At one time a governess could get 1,200 francs, now it's 650 francs—less than the cook. And if you were to be a companion—

ThÉrÈse. Why not a lady's maid at once?

Caroline Legrand. Yes; lady's maid. That's not a bad idea. It's the only occupation a girl brought up as rich people bring up their daughters can be certain to get and to keep, if she's only humble enough.

ThÉrÈse. I shall manage to get along without taking to that.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. But, ThÉrÈse, have you really been blind to all that's been going on here? Haven't you constantly seen unfortunate women, as well brought up and as well educated as yourself, coming hunting for work? Don't you remember that advertisement of the girl that Caroline Legrand was interested in? That advertisement has been appearing in the paper for the last three months. I'll read it to you. [Caroline Legrand takes up a number of "Women Free" and passes it to Mademoiselle de Meuriot] Here it is. [Reading] "A young lady of distinguished appearance, who has taken a high certificate for teaching. Good musician. Drawing, English, shorthand, etc." I know that girl. She told me all about her life. D'you know what she's offered? She asked two francs an hour for teaching the piano. They laughed in her face, because for that they could get a girl who'd taken first prize at the Conservatoire. They gave her seventy-five centimes. Deduct from that seventy-five centimes the price of the journey in that underground, the wear and tear of clothes, the time lost in going and coming, and then what do you think is left?

Caroline Legrand. Let's be just. She got answers from doubtful places abroad, letters from old satyrs, and invitations to pose for the "movies."

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. What's left then? The stage. It's quite natural you should think of the stage.

ThÉrÈse. If one must.

Caroline Legrand. If one must! You'd condescend to it, wouldn't you? You poor child!

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. You can't get into the Conservatoire after twenty-one. Are you under that? No. Are you a genius? No. Well then?

Caroline Legrand. Have you a rich lover who will back you?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. No. Then you'll get nothing at all in the theatres except by making friends with half a dozen men or selling yourself to one.

ThÉrÈse. I'll go into a shop. At any rate, when it shuts I shall be free.

Caroline Legrand. You think they're longing for you, don't you? You forget you'd have to know things for that one doesn't learn by taking a degree; things like shorthand and typewriting. Do you know there are twenty thousand women in Paris who want to get into shops and offices and can't find places?

Madame Chanteuil. I know exactly what's going to become of me.

Caroline Legrand. Now you're going to say something silly.

Madame Chanteuil. You think so, you've guessed. Well, I tell you, middle class girls thrown on the world as we are can't get along without a man—a husband or a lover. We haven't got the key of the prison door. We've not learned a trade. We've learned to smile, and dance, and sing—parlor tricks. All that's only of use in a love affair or a marriage. Without a man we're stranded. Our parents have brought us all up for one career and one only—the man. I was a fool not to understand before. Now I see.

Caroline Legrand. Look here, you're not going to take a lover?

Madame Chanteuil. Suppose I am?

Caroline Legrand. My dear, you came here full of indignation, clamoring against the state of society. You called yourself a feminist, but you, and women like you, are feminists only when it's convenient. There are no real feminists except ugly women like me or old ones like Meuriot. You others come about us in a swarm and then drop away one after another to go off to some man. As soon as a lover condescends to throw the handkerchief you're up and off to him. You want to be slaves. Go, my dear, and take your lover. That's your fate. Good-night. [She goes out]

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [to Madame Chanteuil] Don't listen to her, you poor child. Don't ruin all your life in a fit of despair.

Madame Chanteuil. I can't stay here. I'm not a saint and I'm not a fool. How can I live on what they offer to pay me?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Stay for a little, while you're looking for something else.

Madame Chanteuil. Look for something else! Never! That means all the horrors I went through, before I came here, over again! No! no! no! Never! Looking for work means trailing through the mud, toiling up stairs, ringing bells, being told to call again, calling again to get more snubs. And then when one thinks one's found something one comes up against a door guarded by a man who's watching you, and who's got to be satisfied before you can get into the workroom, or the office, or the shop, or whatever it may be. And then you've got to begin again with somebody else and be snubbed again. No. Since it's an accepted, settled, decided thing that the only career for a woman is to satisfy the passions of a man, I prefer the one I've chosen myself.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. And what if he goes off and leaves you with a baby?

Madame Chanteuil. Well, I'll bring it up. I shan't be the first. Women do it. It happens to one in every five in Paris. Ask Mademoiselle de Meuriot, the old maid, if she wouldn't be glad to have one now? When one grows old it's better to have had a child in that way than not to have had one at all. Ask her if I'm not telling the truth. Ask her if she's happy in her loneliness.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Oh, it's true—it's true! Sometimes—

ThÉrÈse. Oh, Mademoiselle, dear Mademoiselle!

Madame Chanteuil [between her teeth] Good-bye, Mademoiselle. Good-bye, ThÉrÈse.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [to Madame Chanteuil] Wait, wait. I'm going with you. I am not going to leave you just now.

NÉrisse. My dear child, I have news for you. Pleasant news, I think.

ThÉrÈse [rather grimly] Have you?

NÉrisse. One little smile, please, or I shall tell you nothing.

ThÉrÈse. I assure you smiling is the last thing I feel like.

NÉrisse. If you only knew what I've been doing for you, you wouldn't receive me so unkindly.

ThÉrÈse. You can do nothing for me. Will you please leave me alone?

NÉrisse. I don't deserve to be spoken to like that, ThÉrÈse. Listen; we must come to an understanding. I know you're angry with me still about what happened last month. I promised you then I would say no more. Have I kept my word?

ThÉrÈse. Yes, you have.

NÉrisse. Will you always be angry? Is it quite impossible for us to be friends? I am constantly giving you proofs of my friendship. I've done two things for you quite lately. The first was that letter to the editor you're going to see to-morrow, and the second is what I've done now with our new backer. It's this. They wanted to sack you or to offer you humiliating conditions. I said if you didn't stay I wouldn't stay either. I gave in on other points to get my way about this. I shall have their final answer to-morrow, and I know I shall succeed if I stick to my point.

ThÉrÈse. But what right had you to do such a thing? We agreed to forget altogether that you had dared to make love to me. D'you really not understand how that makes it impossible I should ever accept either assistance or protection from you?

NÉrisse. I have still the right to love you in secret.

ThÉrÈse. Indeed you have not, and you've kept your secret precious badly. Madame NÉrisse suspects, and I can see quite well that she's jealous of me. I owe her a great deal; she gave me my first start and got me my place here. I wouldn't make her unhappy for anything in the world. As soon as she hears of what you've done what d'you suppose she'll think?

NÉrisse. I don't care a rap what she thinks.

ThÉrÈse. But I care very much. You've compromised me seriously.

NÉrisse [sincerely contemptuous] Compromised you! Aha, yes, there's the word! Oh, you middle class girls! Always the same! What are you doing here then? What d'you know about life? Nothing. Compromised! Then all your dreams of elevating humanity, all your ambitions, your career, the realization of yourself—you'll give up all that before you'll be what you describe by that stupid, imbecile, middle class word, compromised. When you shook yourself free of your family you behaved like a capable woman. Now you're behaving and thinking like a fashionable doll. Isn't that true? I appeal to your intelligence, to your mind, to everything in you that lifts you out of the ordinary ruck. Your precious word compromised is only the twaddle of a countrified miss. Don't you see that yourself?

ThÉrÈse [very much out of countenance] Ah, if I were only certain that you are hiding nothing behind your friendship and your sympathy!

NÉrisse [with perfectly genuine indignation] Hiding? You said hiding? Is that what you throw in my face? You insult me? What d'you take me for?

ThÉrÈse. I beg your pardon.

NÉrisse. What kind of assurance do you want me to give you? Do you believe in nothing? Is it quite impossible for you to feel frankly and naturally, and to say "I have confidence in you, and I accept your friendship"—a friendship offered to you perfectly honestly and loyally? It really drives one to despair.

ThÉrÈse [without enthusiasm] Well, yes. I say it.

NÉrisse. Thank you. [A silence. Then he says in a low voice] Oh, ThÉrÈse, I love you, how I love you!

ThÉrÈse [snatching her hands away] Oh, this is abominable. You set a trap for me, and my vanity made me fall into it.

NÉrisse. I implore you to let me tell you about myself. I'm so miserable and lonely when you're away.

ThÉrÈse [trying to speak reasonably] I know quite well what you want to say to me, and it all amounts to this: you love me. It's quite clear, and I answer you just as clearly: I do not love you.

NÉrisse. I'm so unhappy!

ThÉrÈse. If it's true that you're unhappy because I don't love you, that is a misfortune for you; a misfortune for which I am not in any way responsible, because you certainly cannot accuse me of having encouraged you.

NÉrisse. I don't ask you to love me—yet. I ask you to allow me to try and win your love.

ThÉrÈse [almost desperate] Don't dare to say that again. If you were an honorable man, you couldn't possibly have said these things to me to-day when my living depends upon you. You know the position I'm in, and you know that if I don't stay here, there are only two courses open to me—to go and live at the expense of my godmother, which I will not do, or to take the chances of a woman alone looking for work in Paris. Don't you understand that speaking about your love for me to-day is the same as driving me into the street?

NÉrisse. If you go into the street, it is by your own choice.

ThÉrÈse. Exactly. There's the old, everlasting, scandalous bargain. Sell yourself or you shall starve. If I give in, I can stay; if I don't—

NÉrisse. I didn't say so. But clearly my efforts to help you will be greater if I know that I'm working for my friend.

ThÉrÈse. You actually confess it! You think yourself an honorable man, and you don't see that what you're doing is the vilest of crimes.

NÉrisse. Now I ask you. Did I wait for your answer before I began to defend you and to help you?

ThÉrÈse. No, but you believe I shall give in through gratitude or fear. Well, don't count upon it. Even if I have to kill myself in the end, I shall never sell myself, either to you or to anyone else. [In despair] Then that's what it comes to. Wherever we want to make our way, to have the right to work and to live, we find the door barred by a man who says, Give yourself or starve. Because one's on one's own, because they know that there's not another man to start up and defend his property! It's almost impossible to believe human beings can be so vile to one another. For food! Just for food! Because they know we shall starve if we don't give in. Because we have old people, or children at home who are waiting for us to bring them food, men put this vile condition to us, to do like the girls in the streets. It's shameful, shameful, shameful. It's enough to make one shriek out loud with rage and despair.

NÉrisse [speaking sternly] I've never asked you to sell yourself. I ask you to love me.

ThÉrÈse. I shall never love you.

NÉrisse [as before] You'll never love. Neither me nor others. Listen—

ThÉrÈse [interrupting] I—

NÉrisse [preventing her from speaking] Wait; I insist upon speaking. You will never love, you say. You will live alone all your life. You're foolish and self-confident enough to think that you can do without a man's affection.

ThÉrÈse. But I—

NÉrisse [continuing] I must try to make you understand your folly. These efforts you're making to escape from the ordinary life of affection are useless, and it's lucky for you they are useless. You can't live without love.

ThÉrÈse. Why?

NÉrisse. All lonely people are wretched. But the lonely woman is twice, a hundred times more wretched than the man. You've no idea what it is. It's to pass all your life under suspicion, yes, suspicion. The world never believes that people live differently from others unless they have secret reasons, and the world always says that secret reasons are shameful reasons. And that's not all. Think of the lonely room where you may cry without anyone to hear you. Think of illness where to your bodily pain is added the mental torture of the fear of dying all alone. Think of the empty heart, the empty arms always, always. And in old age, more wretchedness in the regret for a wasted life. And for what and for whom are you making this sacrifice? For a convention; for a morality that nobody really believes in. Who'll think the better of you for it? People won't even believe in your honesty. They will find explanations for it that would make you die of shame if you knew them. Is that what you want, ThÉrÈse? I am unhappy. Love me. Oh, if you only—

ThÉrÈse. Please spare me your confidences.

NÉrisse. You think this is only a caprice on my part. You are mistaken. I ask you to share my life.

ThÉrÈse. I will never be your mistress.

NÉrisse. You're proud and you're strong. You insist upon marriage. Very well. I agree.

ThÉrÈse. I will not have you! I will not have you!

NÉrisse. Why? Tell me why.

ThÉrÈse. I will tell you why; and then, I hope, I shall have done with you. You're right in one way. I believe I should not be able to live all alone. I should be too unhappy. But at least I'll keep my right of choice. If ever I give myself to anyone, it will be to someone I love. [With vehemence] And I love him, I love him!

NÉrisse [violently] You have a lover! If that's true—

ThÉrÈse [with a cry of triumph] Oh, have I got to the bottom of your vulgar, hateful little soul? If there ever was any danger of my giving in, your expression then would have saved me. You never thought there could be anything better. A lover! No, I have no lover. I have a love.

NÉrisse. I don't see so very much difference.

ThÉrÈse [proudly] I know you don't, and that shows what you are. This is the one love of my life, my love for my betrothed. I lost my money and that separated us, but we found each other again. It's unhappy to be separated, but we bear our unhappiness out of respect for what you call prejudices, because we know how our defying them would hurt those we love. You think me ridiculous, but you cannot imagine how utterly indifferent I am. I am waiting, we are waiting, with perfect trust and love. Now d'you understand that I'm perfectly safe from you? Go!

NÉrisse [in a low voice which trembles with anger and jealousy] How dare you say that to me, ThÉrÈse? How dare you bring such a picture before me? I will not allow you to belong to another man. [He advances towards her]

ThÉrÈse [in violent excitement] No, no, don't dare! Don't touch me! don't dare to touch me!

She cries out those words with such violence and in a voice of such authority that NÉrisse stops and drops into a chair.