Our scene is in a rusty lodging-house of the Lower Town, Boulogne-sur-Mer, and the time, the early twilight of dark November in northern France. This particular November is dark indeed, for it is November of the year 1793, Frimaire of the Terror. The garret room disclosed to us, like the evening lowering outside its one window, and like the times, is mysterious, obscure, smoked with perplexing shadows; these flying and staggering to echo the shiftings of a young man writing at a desk by the light of a candle.

We are just under the eaves here; the dim ceiling slants; and there are two doors: that in the rear wall is closed; the other, upon our right, and evidently leading to an inner chamber, we find ajar. The furniture of this mean apartment is chipped, faded, insecure, yet still possessed of a haggard elegance; shamed odds and ends, cheaply acquired by the proprietor of the lodging-house, no doubt at an auction of the confiscated leavings of some emigrant noble. The single window, square and mustily curtained, is so small that it cannot be imagined to admit much light on the brightest of days; however, it might afford a lodger a limited view of the houses opposite and the street below. In fact, as our eyes grow accustomed to the obscurity we discover it serving this very purpose at the present moment, for a tall woman stands close by in the shadow, peering between the curtains with the distrustfulness of a picket thrown far out into an enemy's country. Her coarse blouse and skirt, new and as ill-fitting as sacks, her shop-woman's bonnet and cheap veil, and her rough shoes are naÏvely denied by her sensitive, pale hands and the high-bred and in-bred face, long profoundly marked by loss and fear, and now very white, very watchful. She is not more than forty, but her hair, glimpsed beneath the clumsy bonnet, shows much grayer than need be at that age. This is Anne de Laseyne.

The intent young man at the desk, easily recognizable as her brother, fair and of a singular physical delicacy, is a finely completed product of his race; one would pronounce him gentle in each sense of the word. His costume rivals his sister's in the innocence of its attempt at disguise: he wears a carefully soiled carter's frock, rough new gaiters, and a pair of dangerously aristocratic shoes, which are not too dusty to conceal the fact that they are of excellent make and lately sported buckles. A tousled cap of rabbit-skin, exhibiting a tricolor cockade, crowns these anomalies, though not at present his thin, blond curls, for it has been tossed upon a dressing-table which stands against the wall to the left. He is younger than Madame de Laseyne, probably by more than ten years; and, though his features so strikingly resemble hers, they are free from the permanent impress of pain which she bears like a mourning-badge upon her own.

He is expending a feverish attention upon his task, but with patently unsatisfactory results; for he whispers and mutters to himself, bites the feather of his pen, shakes his head forebodingly, and again and again crumples a written sheet and throws it upon the floor. Whenever this happens Anne de Laseyne casts a white glance at him over her shoulder—his desk is in the center of the room—her anxiety is visibly increased, and the temptation to speak less and less easily controlled, until at last she gives way to it. Her voice is low and hurried.

Anne. Louis, it is growing dark very fast.

Louis. I had not observed it, my sister. [He lights a second candle from the first; then, pen in mouth, scratches at his writing with a little knife.]

Anne. People are still crowding in front of the wine-shop across the street.

Louis [smiling with one side of his mouth]. Naturally. Reading the list of the proscribed that came at noon. Also waiting, amiable vultures, for the next bulletin from Paris. It will give the names of those guillotined day before yesterday. For a good bet: our own names [he nods toward the other room]—yes, hers, too—are all three in the former. As for the latter—well, they can't get us in that now. Anne [eagerly]. Then you are certain that we are safe?

Louis. I am certain only that they cannot murder us day before yesterday. [As he bends his head to his writing a woman comes in languidly through the open door, bearing an armful of garments, among which one catches the gleam of fine silk, glimpses of lace and rich furs—a disordered burden which she dumps pell-mell into a large portmanteau lying open upon a chair near the desk. This new-comer is of a startling gold-and-ivory beauty; a beauty quite literally striking, for at the very first glance the whole force of it hits the beholder like a snowball in the eye; a beauty so obvious, so completed, so rounded, that it is painful; a beauty to rivet the unenvious stare of women, but from the full blast of which either king or man-peasant would stagger away to the confessional. The egregious luster of it is not breathed upon even by its overspreading of sullen revolt, as its possessor carelessly arranges the garments in the portmanteau. She wears a dress all gray, of a coarse texture, but exquisitely fitted to her; nothing could possibly be plainer, or of a more revealing simplicity. She might be twenty-two; at least it is certain that she is not thirty. At her coming, Louis looks up with a sigh of poignant wistfulness, evidently a habit; for as he leans back to watch her he sighs again. She does not so much as glance at him, but speaks absently to Madame de Laseyne. Her voice is superb, as it should be; deep and musical, with a faint, silvery huskiness.]

Eloise [the new-comer]. Is he still there?

Anne. I lost sight of him in the crowd. I think he has gone. If only he does not come back!

Louis [with grim conviction]. He will.

Anne. I am trying to hope not.

Eloise. I have told you from the first that you overestimate his importance. Haven't I said it often enough?

Anne [under her breath]. You have!

Eloise [coldly]. He will not harm you.

Anne [looking out of the window]. More people down there; they are running to the wine-shop.

Louis. Gentle idlers! [The sound of triumphant shouting comes up from the street below.] That means that the list of the guillotined has arrived from Paris.

Anne [shivering]. They are posting it in the wine-shop window. [The shouting increases suddenly to a roar of hilarity, in which the shrilling of women mingles.]

Louis. Ah! One remarks that the list is a long one. The good people are well satisfied with it. [To Eloise] My cousin, in this amiable populace which you champion, do you never scent something of—well, something of the graveyard scavenger? [She offers the response of an unmoved glance in his direction, and slowly goes out by the door at which she entered. Louis sighs again and returns to his scribbling.]

Anne [nervously]. Haven't you finished, Louis?

Louis [indicating the floor strewn with crumpled slips of paper]. A dozen.

Anne. Not good enough?

Louis [with a rueful smile]. I have lived to discover that among all the disadvantages of being a Peer of France the most dangerous is that one is so poor a forger. Truly, however, our parents are not to be blamed for neglecting to have me instructed in this art; evidently they perceived I had no talent for it. [Lifting a sheet from the desk.] Oh, vile! I am not even an amateur. [He leans back, tapping the paper thoughtfully with his pen.] Do you suppose the Fates took all the trouble to make the Revolution simply to teach me that I have no skill in forgery? Listen. [He reads what he has written.] "Committee of Public Safety. In the name of the Republic. To all Officers, Civil and Military: Permit the Citizen Balsage"—that's myself, remember—"and the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, his sister"—that's you, Anne—"and the Citizeness Marie Balsage, his second sister"—that is Eloise, you understand—"to embark in the vessel Jeune Pierrette from the port of Boulogne for Barcelona. Signed: Billaud Varennes. Carnot. Robespierre." Execrable! [He tears up the paper, scattering the fragments on the floor.] I am not even sure it is the proper form. Ah, that Dossonville!

Anne. But Dossonville helped us—

Louis. At a price. Dossonville! An individual of marked attainment, not only in penmanship, but in the art of plausibility. Before I paid him he swore that the passports he forged for us would take us not only out of Paris, but out of the country.

Anne. Are you sure we must have a separate permit to embark? Louis. The captain of the Jeune Pierrette sent one of his sailors to tell me. There is a new Commissioner from the National Committee, he said, and a special order was issued this morning. They have an officer and a file of the National Guard on the quay to see that the order is obeyed.

Anne. But we bought passports in Paris. Why can't we here?

Louis. Send out a street-crier for an accomplished forger? My poor Anne! We can only hope that the lieutenant on the quay may be drunk when he examines my dreadful "permit." Pray a great thirst upon him, my sister! [He looks at a watch which he draws from beneath his frock.] Four o'clock. At five the tide in the river is poised at its highest; then it must run out, and the Jeune Pierrette with it. We have an hour. I return to my crime. [He takes a fresh sheet of paper and begins to write.]

Anne [urgently]. Hurry, Louis!

Louis. Watch for Master Spy.

Anne. I cannot see him. [There is silence for a time, broken only by the nervous scratching of Louis's pen.]

Louis [at work]. Still you don't see him?

Anne. No. The people are dispersing. They seem in a good humor.

Louis. Ah, if they knew—[He breaks off, examines his latest effort attentively, and finds it unsatisfactory, as is evinced by the noiseless whistle of disgust to which his lips form themselves. He discards the sheet and begins another, speaking rather absently as he does so.] I suppose I have the distinction to be one of the most hated men in our country, now that all the decent people have left it—so many by a road something of the shortest! Yes, these merry gentlemen below there would be still merrier if they knew they had within their reach a forfeited "Emigrant." I wonder how long it would take them to climb the breakneck flights to our door. Lord, there'd be a race for it! Prize-money, too, I fancy, for the first with his bludgeon.

Anne [lamentably]. Louis, Louis! Why didn't you lie safe in England?

Louis [smiling]. Anne, Anne! I had to come back for a good sister of mine.

Anne. But I could have escaped alone. Louis. That is it—"alone"! [He lowers his voice as he glances toward the open door.] For she would not have moved at all if I hadn't come to bully her into it. A fanatic, a fanatic!

Anne [brusquely]. She is a fool. Therefore be patient with her.

Louis [warningly]. Hush.

Eloise [in a loud, careless tone from the other room]. Oh, I heard you! What does it matter? [She returns, carrying a handsome skirt and bodice of brocade and a woman's long mantle of light-green cloth, hooded and lined with fur. She drops them into the portmanteau and closes it.] There! I've finished your packing for you.

Louis [rising]. My cousin, I regret that we could not provide servants for this flight. [Bowing formally.] I regret that we have been compelled to ask you to do a share of what is necessary.

Eloise [turning to go out again]. That all?

Louis [lifting the portmanteau]. I fear—

Eloise [with assumed fatigue]. Yes, you usually do. What now?

Louis [flushing painfully]. The portmanteau is too heavy. [He returns to the desk, sits, and busies himself with his writing, keeping his grieved face from her view.]

Eloise. You mean you're too weak to carry it?

Louis. Suppose at the last moment it becomes necessary to hasten exceedingly—

Eloise. You mean, suppose you had to run, you'd throw away the portmanteau. [Contemptuously.] Oh, I don't doubt you'd do it!

Louis [forcing himself to look up at her cheerfully]. I dislike to leave my baggage upon the field, but in case of a rout it might be a temptation—if it were an impediment.

Anne [peremptorily]. Don't waste time. Lighten the portmanteau.

Louis. You may take out everything of mine.

Eloise. There's nothing of yours in it except your cloak. You don't suppose—

Anne. Take out that heavy brocade of mine.

Eloise. Thank you for not wishing to take out my fur-lined cloak and freezing me at sea!

Louis [gently]. Take out both the cloak and the dress. Eloise [astounded]. What!

Louis. You shall have mine. It is as warm, but not so heavy.

Eloise [angrily]. Oh, I am sick of your eternal packing and unpacking! I am sick of it!

Anne. Watch at the window, then. [She goes swiftly to the portmanteau, opens it, tosses out the green mantle and the brocaded skirt and bodice, and tests the weight of the portmanteau.] I think it will be light enough now, Louis.

Louis. Do not leave those things in sight. If our landlord should come in—

Anne. I'll hide them in the bed in the next room. Eloise! [She points imperiously to the window. Eloise goes to it slowly and for a moment makes a scornful pretense of being on watch there; but as soon as Madame de Laseyne has left the room she turns, leaning against the wall and regarding Louis with languid amusement. He continues to struggle with his ill-omened "permit," but, by and by, becoming aware of her gaze, glances consciously over his shoulder and meets her half-veiled eyes. Coloring, he looks away, stares dreamily at nothing, sighs, and finally writes again, absently, like a man under a spell, which, indeed, he is. The pen drops from his hand with a faint click upon the floor. He makes the movement of a person suddenly awakened, and, holding his last writing near one of the candles, examines it critically. Then he breaks into low, bitter laughter.]

Eloise [unwillingly curious]. You find something amusing?

Louis. Myself. One of my mistakes, that is all.

Eloise [indifferently]. Your mirth must be indefatigable if you can still laugh at those.

Louis. I agree. I am a history of error.

Eloise. You should have made it a vocation; it is your one genius. And yet—truly because I am a fool I think, as Anne says—I let you hector me into a sillier mistake than any of yours.

Louis. When?

Eloise [flinging out her arms]. Oh, when I consented to this absurd journey, this tiresome journey—with you! An "escape"? From nothing. In "disguise." Which doesn't disguise. Louis [his voice taut with the effort for self-command]. My sister asked me to be patient with you, Eloise—

Eloise. Because I am a fool, yes. Thanks. [Shrewishly.] And then, my worthy young man? [He rises abruptly, smarting almost beyond endurance.]

Louis [breathing deeply]. Have I not been patient with you?

Eloise [with a flash of energy]. If I have asked you to be anything whatever—with me!—pray recall the petition to my memory.

Louis [beginning to let himself go]. Patient! Have I ever been anything but patient with you? Was I not patient with you five years ago when you first harangued us on your "Rights of Man" and your monstrous republicanism? Where you got hold of it all I don't know—

Eloise [kindling]. Ideas, my friend. Naturally, incomprehensible to you. Books! Brains! Men!

Louis. "Books! Brains! Men!" Treason, poison, and mobs! Oh, I could laugh at you then: they were only beginning to kill us, and I was patient. Was I not patient with you when these Republicans of yours drove us from our homes, from our country, stole all we had, assassinated us in dozens, in hundreds, murdered our King? [He walks the floor, gesticulating nervously.] When I saw relative after relative of my own—aye, and of yours, too—dragged to the abattoir—even poor, harmless, kind AndrÉ de Laseyne, whom they took simply because he was my brother-in-law—was I not patient? And when I came back to Paris for you and Anne, and had to lie hid in a stable, every hour in greater danger because you would not be persuaded to join us, was I not patient? And when you finally did consent, but protested every step of the way, pouting and—

Eloise [stung]. "Pouting!"

Louis. And when that stranger came posting after us so obvious a spy—

Eloise [scornfully]. Pooh! He is nothing.

Louis. Is there a league between here and Paris over which he has not dogged us? By diligence, on horseback, on foot, turning up at every posting-house, every roadside inn, the while you laughed at me because I read death in his face! These two days we have been here, is there an hour when you could look from that window except to see him grinning up from the wine-shop door down there?

Eloise [impatiently, but with a somewhat conscious expression]. I tell you not to fear him. There is nothing in it.

Louis [looking at her keenly]. Be sure I understand why you do not think him a spy! You believe he has followed us because you—

Eloise. I expected that! Oh, I knew it would come! [Furiously.] I never saw the man before in my life!

Louis [pacing the floor]. He is unmistakable; his trade is stamped on him; a hired trailer of your precious "Nation's."

Eloise [haughtily]. The Nation is the People. You malign because you fear. The People is sacred!

Louis [with increasing bitterness]. Aren't you tired yet of the Palais Royal platitudes? I have been patient with your Mericourtisms for so long. Yes, always I was patient. Always there was time; there was danger, but there was a little time. [He faces her, his voice becoming louder, his gestures more vehement.] But now the Jeune Pierrette sails this hour, and if we are not out of here and on her deck when she leaves the quay, my head rolls in Samson's basket within the week, with Anne's and your own to follow! Now, I tell you, there is no more time, and now—

Eloise [suavely]. Yes? Well? "Now?" [He checks himself; his lifted hand falls to his side.]

Louis [in a gentle voice]. I am still patient. [He looks into her eyes, makes her a low and formal obeisance, and drops dejectedly into the chair at the desk.]

Eloise [dangerously]. Is the oration concluded?

Louis. Quite.

Eloise [suddenly volcanic]. Then "now" you'll perhaps be "patient" enough to explain why I shouldn't leave you instantly. Understand fully that I have come thus far with you and Anne solely to protect you in case you were suspected. "Now," my little man, you are safe: you have only to go on board your vessel. Why should I go with you? Why do you insist on dragging me out of the country?

Louis [wearily]. Only to save your life; that is all.

Eloise. My life! Tut! My life is safe with the People—my People! [She draws herself up magnificently.] The Nation would protect me! I gave the people my whole fortune when they were starving. After that, who in France dare lay a finger upon the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville!

Louis. I have the idea sometimes, my cousin, that perhaps if you had not given them your property they would have taken it, anyway. [Dryly.] They did mine.

Eloise [agitated]. I do not expect you to comprehend what I felt—what I feel! [She lifts her arms longingly.] Oh, for a Man!—a Man who could understand me!

Louis [sadly]. That excludes me!

Eloise. Shall I spell it?

Louis. You are right. So far from understanding you, I understand nothing. The age is too modern for me. I do not understand why this rabble is permitted to rule France; I do not even understand why it is permitted to live.

Eloise [with superiority]. Because you belong to the class that thought itself made of porcelain and the rest of the world clay. It is simple: the mud-ball breaks the vase.

Louis. You belong to the same class, even to the same family.

Eloise. You are wrong. One circumstance proves me no aristocrat.

Louis. What circumstance?

Eloise. That I happened to be born with brains. I can account for it only by supposing some hushed-up ancestral scandal. [Brusquely.] Do you understand that?

Louis. I overlook it. [He writes again.]

Eloise. Quibbling was always a habit of yours. [Snapping at him irritably.] Oh, stop that writing! You can't do it, and you don't need it. You blame the people because they turn on you now, after you've whipped and beaten and ground them underfoot for centuries and centuries and—

Louis. Quite a career for a man of twenty-nine!

Eloise. I have said that quibbling was—

Louis [despondently]. Perhaps it is. To return to my other deficiencies, I do not understand why this spy who followed us from Paris has not arrested me long before now. I do not understand why you hate me. I do not understand the world in general. And in particular I do not understand the art of forgery. [He throws down his pen.]

Eloise. You talk of "patience"! How often have I explained that you would not need passports of any kind if you would let me throw off my incognito. If anyone questions you, it will be sufficient if I give my name. All France knows the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville. Do you suppose the officer on the quay would dare oppose—

Louis [with a gesture of resignation]. I know you think it.

Eloise [angrily]. You tempt me not to prove it. But for Anne's sake—

Louis. Not for mine. That, at least, I understand. [He rises.] My dear cousin, I am going to be very serious—

Eloise. O heaven! [She flings away from him.]

Louis [plaintively]. I shall not make another oration—

Eloise. Make anything you choose. [Drumming the floor with her foot.] What does it matter?

Louis. I have a presentiment—I ask you to listen—

Eloise [in her irritation almost screaming]. How can I help but listen? And Anne, too! [With a short laugh.] You know as well as I do that when that door is open everything you say in this room is heard in there. [She points to the open doorway, where Madame de Laseyne instantly makes her appearance, and after exchanging one fiery glance with Eloise as swiftly withdraws, closing the door behind her with outraged emphasis.]

Eloise [breaking into a laugh]. Forward, soldiers!

Louis [reprovingly]. Eloise!

Eloise. Well, open the door, then, if you want her to hear you make love to me! [Coolly.] That's what you're going to do, isn't it?

Louis [with imperfect self-control]. I wish to ask you for the last time—

Eloise [flouting]. There are so many last times!

Louis. To ask you if you are sure that you know your own heart. You cared for me once, and—

Eloise [as if this were news indeed]. I did? Who under heaven ever told you that?

Louis [flushing]. You allowed yourself to be betrothed to me, I believe.

Eloise. "Allowed" is the word, precisely. I seem to recall changing all that the very day I became an orphan—and my own master! [Satirically polite.] Pray correct me if my memory errs. How long ago was it? Six years? Seven? Louis [with emotion]. Eloise, Eloise, you did love me then! We were happy, both of us, so very happy—

Eloise [sourly]. "Both!" My faith! But I must have been a brave little actress.

Louis. I do not believe it. You loved me. I—[He hesitates.]

Eloise. Do get on with what you have to say.

Louis [in a low voice]. I have many forebodings, Eloise, but the strongest—and for me the saddest—is that this is the last chance you will ever have to tell—to tell me—[He falters again.]

Eloise [irritated beyond measure, shouting]. To tell you what?

Louis [swallowing]. That your love for me still lingers.

Eloise [promptly]. Well, it doesn't. So that's over!

Louis. Not quite yet. I—

Eloise [dropping into a chair]. O Death!

Louis [still gently]. Listen. I have hope that you and Anne may be permitted to escape; but as for me, since the first moment I felt the eyes of that spy from Paris upon me I have had the premonition that I would be taken back—to the guillotine, Eloise. I am sure that he will arrest me when I attempt to leave this place to-night. [With sorrowful earnestness.] And it is with the certainty in my soul that this is our last hour together that I ask you if you cannot tell me that the old love has come back. Is there nothing in your heart for me?

Eloise. Was there anything in your heart for the beggar who stood at your door in the old days?

Louis. Is there nothing for him who stands at yours now, begging for a word?

Eloise [frowning]. I remember you had the name of a disciplinarian in your regiment. [She rises to face him.] Did you ever find anything in your heart for the soldiers you ordered tied up and flogged? Was there anything in your heart for the peasants who starved in your fields?

Louis [quietly]. No; it was too full of you.

Eloise. Words! Pretty little words!

Louis. Thoughts. Pretty, because they are of you. All, always of you—always, my dear. I never really think of anything but you. The picture of you is always before the eyes of my soul; the very name of you is forever in my heart. [With a rueful smile.] And it is on the tips of my fingers, sometimes when it shouldn't be. See. [He steps to the desk and shows her a scribbled sheet.] This is what I laughed at a while ago. I tried to write, with you near me, and unconsciously I let your name creep into my very forgery! I wrote it as I wrote it in the sand when we were children; as I have traced it a thousand times on coated mirrors—on frosted windows. [He reads the writing aloud.] "Permit the Citizen Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, and his second sister, the Citizeness Marie Balsage, and Eloise d'Anville"—so I wrote!—"to embark upon the vessel Jeune Pierrette—" You see? [He lets the paper fall upon the desk.] Even in this danger, that I feel closer and closer with every passing second, your name came in of itself. I am like that English Mary: if they will open my heart when I am dead, they shall find, not "Calais," but "Eloise"!

Eloise [going to the dressing-table]. Louis, that doesn't interest me. [She adds a delicate touch or two to her hair, studying it thoughtfully in the dressing-table mirror.]

Louis [somberly]. I told you long ago—

Eloise [smiling at her reflection]. So you did—often!

Louis [breathing quickly]. I have nothing new to offer. I understand. I bore you.

Eloise. Louis, to be frank: I don't care what they find in your heart when they open it.

Louis [with a hint of sternness]. Have you never reflected that there might be something for me to forgive you?

Eloise [glancing at him over her shoulder in frowning surprise]. What!

Louis. I wonder sometimes if you have ever found a flaw in your own character.

Eloise [astounded]. So! [Turning sharply upon him.] You are assuming the right to criticize me, are you? Oho!

Louis [agitated]. I state merely—I have said—I think I forgive you a great deal—

Eloise [beginning to char]. You do! You bestow your gracious pardon upon me, do you? [Bursting into flame.] Keep your forgiveness to yourself! When I want it I'll kneel at your feet and beg it of you! You can kiss me then, for then you will know that "the old love has come back"!

Louis [miserably]. When you kneel— Eloise. Can you picture it—Marquis? [She hurls his title at him, and draws herself up in icy splendor.] I am a woman of the Republic!

Louis. And the Republic has no need of love.

Eloise. Its daughter has no need of yours!

Louis. Until you kneel to me. You have spoken. It is ended. [Turning from her with a pathetic gesture of farewell and resignation, his attention is suddenly arrested by something invisible. He stands for a moment transfixed. When he speaks, it is in an altered tone, light and at the same time ominous.] My cousin, suffer the final petition of a bore. Forgive my seriousness; forgive my stupidity, for I believe that what one hears now means that a number of things are indeed ended. Myself among them.

Eloise [not comprehending]. "What one hears?"

Louis [slowly]. In the distance. [Both stand motionless to listen, and the room is silent. Gradually a muffled, multitudinous sound, at first very faint, becomes audible.]

Eloise. What is it?

Louis [with pale composure]. Only a song! [The distant sound becomes distinguishable as a singing from many unmusical throats and pitched in every key, a drum-beat booming underneath; a tumultuous rumble which grows slowly louder. The door of the inner room opens, and Madame de Laseyne enters.]

Anne [briskly, as she comes in]. I have hidden the cloak and the dress beneath the mattress. Have you—

Louis [lifting his hand]. Listen! [She halts, startled. The singing, the drums, and the tumult swell suddenly much louder, as if the noise-makers had turned a corner.]

Anne [crying out]. The "Marseillaise"!

Louis. The "Vultures' Chorus"!

Eloise [in a ringing voice]. The Hymn of Liberty!

Anne [trembling violently]. It grows louder.

Louis. Nearer!

Eloise [running to the window]. They are coming this way!

Anne [rushing ahead of her]. They have turned the corner of the street. Keep back, Louis!

Eloise [leaning out of the window, enthusiastically]. Vive la—[She finishes with an indignant gurgle as Anne de Laseyne, without comment, claps a prompt hand over her mouth and pushes her vigorously from the window.]

Anne. A mob—carrying torches and dancing. [Her voice shaking wildly.] They are following a troop of soldiers.

Louis. The National Guard.

Anne. Keep back from the window! A man in a tricolor scarf marching in front.

Louis. A political, then—an official of their government.

Anne. O Virgin, have mercy! [She turns a stricken face upon her brother.] It is that—

Louis [biting his nails]. Of course. Our spy. [He takes a hesitating step toward the desk; but swings about, goes to the door at the rear, shoots the bolt back and forth, apparently unable to decide upon a course of action; finally leaves the door bolted and examines the hinges. Anne, meanwhile, has hurried to the desk, and, seizing a candle there, begins to light others in a candelabrum on the dressing-table. The noise outside grows to an uproar; the "Marseillaise" changes to "Ça ira"; and a shaft of the glare from the torches below shoots through the window and becomes a staggering red patch on the ceiling.]

Anne [feverishly]. Lights! Light those candles in the sconce, Eloise! Light all the candles we have. [Eloise, resentful, does not move.]

Louis. No, no! Put them out!

Anne. Oh, fatal! [She stops him as he rushes to obey his own command.] If our window is lighted he will believe we have no thought of leaving, and pass by. [She hastily lights the candles in a sconce upon the wall as she speaks; the shabby place is now brightly illuminated.]

Louis. He will not pass by. [The external tumult culminates in riotous yelling, as, with a final roll, the drums cease to beat. Madame de Laseyne runs again to the window.]

Eloise [sullenly]. You are disturbing yourselves without reason. They will not stop here.

Anne [in a sickly whisper]. They have stopped.

Louis. At the door of this house? [Madame de Laseyne, leaning against the wall, is unable to reply, save by a gesture. The noise from the street dwindles to a confused, expectant murmur. Louis takes a pistol from beneath his blouse, strides to the door, and listens.] Anne [faintly]. He is in the house. The soldiers followed him.

Louis. They are on the lower stairs. [He turns to the two women humbly.] My sister and my cousin, my poor plans have only made everything worse for you. I cannot ask you to forgive me. We are caught.

Anne [vitalized with the energy of desperation]. Not till the very last shred of hope is gone. [She springs to the desk and begins to tear the discarded sheets into minute fragments.] Is that door fastened?

Louis. They'll break it down, of course.

Anne. Where is our passport from Paris?

Louis. Here. [He gives it to her.]

Anne. Quick! Which of these "permits" is the best?

Louis. They're all hopeless—[He fumbles among the sheets on the desk.]

Anne. Any of them. We can't stop to select. [She thrusts the passport and a haphazard sheet from the desk into the bosom of her dress. An orderly tramping of heavy shoes and a clinking of metal become audible as the soldiers ascend the upper flight of stairs.]

Eloise. All this is childish. [Haughtily.] I shall merely announce—

Anne [uttering a half-choked scream of rage]. You'll announce nothing! Out of here, both of you!

Louis. No, no!

Anne [with breathless rapidity, as the noise on the stairs grows louder]. Let them break the door in if they will; only let them find me alone. [She seizes her brother's arm imploringly as he pauses, uncertain.] Give me the chance to make them think I am here alone.

Louis. I can't—

Anne [urging him to the inner door]. Is there any other possible hope for us? Is there any other possible way to gain even a little time? Louis, I want your word of honor not to leave that room unless I summon you. I must have it! [Overborne by her intensity, Louis nods despairingly, allowing her to force him toward the other room. The tramping of the soldiers, much louder and very close, comes to a sudden stop. There is a sharp word of command, and a dozen muskets ring on the floor just beyond the outer door.] Eloise [folding her arms]. You needn't think I shall consent to hide myself. I shall tell them—

Anne [in a surcharged whisper]. You will not ruin us! [With furious determination, as a loud knock falls upon the door.] In there, I tell you! [Almost physically she sweeps both Eloise and Louis out of the room, closes the door upon them, and leans against it, panting. The knocking is repeated. She braces herself to speak.]

Anne [with a catch in her throat]. Who is—there?

A Sonorous Voice. French Republic!

Anne [faltering]. It is—it is difficult to hear. What do you—

The Voice. Open the door.

Anne [more firmly]. That is impossible.

The Voice. Open the door.

Anne. What is your name?

The Voice. Valsin, National Agent.

Anne. I do not know you.

The Voice. Open!

Anne. I am here alone. I am dressing. I can admit no one.

The Voice. For the last time: open!

Anne. No!

The Voice. Break it down. [A thunder of blows from the butts of muskets falls upon the door.]

Anne [rushing toward it in a passion of protest]. No, no, no! You shall not come in! I tell you I have not finished dressing. If you are men of honor—Ah! [She recoils, gasping, as a panel breaks in, the stock of a musket following it; and then, weakened at rusty bolt and crazy hinge, the whole door gives way and falls crashing into the room. The narrow passage thus revealed is crowded with shabbily uniformed soldiers of the National Guard, under an officer armed with a saber. As the door falls a man wearing a tricolor scarf strides by them, and, standing beneath the dismantled lintel, his hands behind him, sweeps the room with a smiling eye.

This personage is handsomely, almost dandiacally dressed in black; his ruffle is of lace, his stockings are of silk; the lapels of his waistcoat, overlapping those of his long coat, exhibit a rich embroidery of white and crimson. These and other details of elegance, such as his wearing powder upon his dark hair, indicate either insane daring or an importance quite overwhelming. A certain easy power in his unusually brilliant eyes favors the probability that, like Robespierre, he can wear what he pleases. Undeniably he has distinction. Equally undeniable is something in his air that is dapper and impish and lurking. His first glance over the room apparently affording him acute satisfaction, he steps lightly across the prostrate door, Madame de Laseyne retreating before him but keeping herself between him and the inner door. He comes to an unexpected halt in a dancing-master's posture, removing his huge hat—which displays a tricolor plume of ostrich feathers—with a wide flourish, an intentional burlesque of the old-court manner.]

Valsin. Permit me. [He bows elaborately.] Be gracious to a recent fellow-traveler. I introduce myself. At your service: Valsin, Agent of the National Committee of Public Safety. [He faces about sharply.] Soldiers! [They stand at attention.] To the street door. I will conduct the examination alone. My assistant will wait on this floor, at the top of the stair. Send the people away down below there, officer. Look to the courtyard. Clear the streets. [The officer salutes, gives a word of command, and the soldiers shoulder their muskets, march off, and are heard clanking down the stairs. Valsin tosses his hat upon the desk, and turns smilingly to the trembling but determined Madame de Laseyne.]

Anne [summoning her indignation]. How dare you break down my door! How dare you force your—

Valsin [suavely]. My compliments on the celerity with which the citizeness has completed her toilet. Marvelous. An example to her sex.

Anne. You intend robbery, I suppose.

Valsin [with a curt laugh]. Not precisely.

Anne. What, then?

Valsin. I have come principally for the returned Emigrant, Louis Valny-Cherault, formerly called Marquis de Valny-Cherault, formerly of the former regiment of Valny; also formerly—

Anne [cutting him off sharply]. I do not know what you mean by all these names—and "formerlies"!

Valsin. No? [Persuasively.] Citizeness, pray assert that I did not encounter you last week on your journey from Paris—

Anne [hastily]. It is true I have been to Paris on business; you may have seen me—I do not know. Is it a crime to return from Paris?

Valsin [in a tone of mock encouragement]. It will amuse me to hear you declare that I did not see you traveling in company with Louis Valny-Cherault. Come! Say it.

Anne [stepping back defensively, closer to the inner door]. I am alone, I tell you! I do not know what you mean. If you saw me speaking with people in the diligence, or at some posting-house, they were only traveling acquaintances. I did not know them. I am a widow—

Valsin. My condolences. Poor, of course?

Anne. Yes.

Valsin. And lonely, of course? [Apologetically.] Loneliness is in the formula: I suggest it for fear you might forget.

Anne [doggedly]. I am alone.

Valsin. Quite right.

Anne [confusedly]. I am a widow, I tell you—a widow, living here quietly with—

Valsin [taking her up quickly]. Ah—"with"! Living here alone, and also "with"—whom? Not your late husband?

Anne [desperately]. With my niece.

Valsin [affecting great surprise]. Ah! A niece! And the niece, I take it, is in your other room yonder?

Anne [huskily]. Yes.

Valsin [taking a step forward]. Is she pretty? [Anne places her back against the closed door, facing him grimly. He assumes a tone of indulgence.] Ah, one must not look: the niece, likewise, has not completed her toilet.

Anne. She is—asleep.

Valsin [glancing toward the dismantled doorway]. A sound napper! Why did you not say instead that she was—shaving? [He advances, smiling.]

Anne [between her teeth]. You shall not go in! You cannot see her! She is—

Valsin [laughing]. Allow me to prompt you. She is not only asleep; she is ill. She is starving. Also, I cannot go in because she is an orphan. Surely, she is an orphan? A lonely widow and her lonely orphan niece. Ah, touching—and sweet!

Anne [hotly]. What authority have you to force your way into my apartment and insult— Valsin [touching his scarf]. I had the honor to mention the French Republic.

Anne. So! Does the French Republic persecute widows and orphans?

Valsin [gravely]. No. It is the making of them!

Valsin. I regret that its just severity was the cause of your own bereavement, Citizeness. When your unfortunate husband, AndrÉ, formerly known as the Prince de Laseyne—

Anne [defiantly, though tears have sprung to her eyes]. I tell you I do not know what you mean by these titles. My name is Balsage.

Valsin. Bravo! The Widow Balsage, living here in calm obscurity with her niece. Widow Balsage, answer quickly, without stopping to think. [Sharply.] How long have you lived here?

Anne. Two months. [Faltering.]—A year!

Valsin [laughing]. Good. Two months and a year! No visitors? No strangers?

Anne. No.

Valsin [wheeling quickly and picking up Louis's cap from the dressing-table]. This cap, then, belongs to your niece.

Anne [flustered, advancing toward him as if to take it]. It was—it was left here this afternoon by our landlord.

Valsin [musingly]. That is very, very puzzling. [He leans against the dressing-table in a careless attitude, his back to her.]

Anne [cavalierly]. Why "puzzling"?

Valsin. Because I sent him on an errand to Paris this morning. [She flinches, but he does not turn to look at her, continuing in a tone of idle curiosity.] I suppose your own excursion to Paris was quite an event for you, Widow Balsage. You do not take many journeys?

Anne. I am too poor.

Valsin. And you have not been contemplating another departure from Boulogne?

Anne. No.

Valsin [still in the same careless attitude, his back toward her and the closed door]. Good. It is as I thought: the portmanteau is for ornament. Anne [choking]. It belongs to my niece. She came only an hour ago. She has not unpacked.

Valsin. Naturally. Too ill.

Anne. She had traveled all night; she was exhausted. She went to sleep at once.

Valsin. Is she a somnambulist?

Anne [taken aback]. Why?

Valsin [indifferently]. She has just opened the door of her room in order to overhear our conversation. [Waving his hand to the dressing-table mirror, in which he had been gazing.] Observe it, Citizeness Laseyne.

Anne [demoralized]. I do not—I—[Stamping her foot.] How often shall I tell you my name is Balsage!

Valsin [turning to her apologetically]. My wretched memory. Perhaps I might remember better if I saw it written: I beg a glance at your papers. Doubtless you have your certificate of citizenship—

Anne [trembling]. I have papers, certainly.

Valsin. The sight of them—

Anne. I have my passport; you shall see. [With wildly shaking hands she takes from her blouse the passport and the "permit," crumpled together.] It is in proper form—[She is nervously replacing the two papers in her bosom when with a sudden movement he takes them from her. She cries out incoherently, and attempts to recapture them.]

Valsin [extending his left arm to fend her off]. Yes, here you have your passport. And there you have others. [He points to the littered floor under the desk.] Many of them!

Anne. Old letters! [She clutches at the papers in his grasp.]

Valsin [easily fending her off]. Doubtless! [He shakes the "permit" open.] Oho! A permission to embark—and signed by three names of the highest celebrity. Alas, these unfortunate statesmen, Billaud Varennes, Carnot, and Robespierre! Each has lately suffered an injury to his right hand. What a misfortune for France! And what a coincidence! One has not heard the like since we closed the theatres.

Anne [furiously struggling to reach his hand]. Give me my papers! Give me—

Valsin [holding them away from her]. You see, these unlucky great men had their names signed for them by somebody else. And I should judge that this somebody else must have been writing quite recently—less than half an hour ago, from the freshness of the ink—and in considerable haste; perhaps suffering considerable anguish of mind, Widow Balsage! [Madame de Laseyne, overwhelmed, sinks into a chair. He comes close to her, his manner changing startlingly.]

Valsin [bending over with sudden menace, his voice loud and harsh]. Widow Balsage, if you intend no journey, why have you this forged permission to embark on the Jeune Pierrette? Widow Balsage, who is the Citizen Balsage?

Anne [faintly]. My brother.

Valsin [straightening up]. Your first truth. [Resuming his gaiety.] Of course he is not in that room yonder with your niece.

Anne [brokenly]. No, no, no; he is not! He is not here.

Valsin [commiseratingly]. Poor woman! You have not even the pleasure to perceive how droll you are.

Anne. I perceive that I am a fool! [She dashes the tears from her eyes and springs to her feet.] I also perceive that you have denounced us before the authorities here—

Valsin. Pardon. In Boulogne it happens that I am the authority. I introduce myself for the third time: Valsin, Commissioner of the National Committee of Public Safety. Tallien was sent to Bordeaux; Collot to Lyons; I to Boulogne. Citizeness, were all of the august names on your permit genuine, you could no more leave this port without my counter-signature than you could take wing and fly over the Channel!

Anne [with a shrill laugh of triumph]. You have overreached yourself! You're an ordinary spy: you followed us from Paris—

Valsin [gaily]. Oh, I intended you to notice that!

Anne [unheeding]. You have claimed to be Commissioner of the highest power in France. We can prove that you are a common spy. You may go to the guillotine for that. Take care, Citizen! So! You have denounced us; we denounce you. I'll have you arrested by your own soldiers. I'll call them— [She makes a feint of running to the window. He watches her coolly, in silence; and she halts, chagrined.]

Valsin [pleasantly]. I was sure you would not force me to be premature. Remark it, Citizeness Laseyne: I am enjoying all this. I have waited a long time for it.

Anne [becoming hysterical]. I am the Widow Balsage, I tell you! You do not know us—you followed us from Paris. [Half sobbing.] You're a spy—a hanger-on of the police. We will prove—

Valsin [stepping to the dismantled doorway]. I left my assistant within hearing—a species of animal of mine. I may claim that he belongs to me. A worthy patriot, but skillful, who has had the honor of a slight acquaintance with you, I believe. [Calling.] Dossonville! [Dossonville, a large man, flabby of flesh, loose-mouthed, grizzled, carelessly dressed, makes his appearance in the doorway. He has a harsh and reckless eye; and, obviously a flamboyant bully by temperament, his abject, doggish deference to Valsin is instantly impressive, more than confirming the latter's remark that Dossonville "belongs" to him. Dossonville, apparently, is a chattel indeed, body and soul. At sight of him Madame de Laseyne catches at the desk for support and stands speechless.]

Valsin [easily]. Dossonville, you may inform the Citizeness Laseyne what office I have the fortune to hold.

Dossonville [coming in]. Bright heaven! All the world knows that you are the representative of the Committee of Public Safety. Commissioner to Boulogne.

Valsin. With what authority?

Dossonville. Absolute—unlimited! Naturally. What else would be useful?

Valsin. You recall this woman, Dossonville?

Dossonville. She was present when I delivered the passport to the Emigrant Valny-Cherault, in Paris.

Valsin. Did you forge that passport?

Dossonville. No. I told the Emigrant I had. Under orders. [Grinning.] It was genuine.

Valsin. Where did you get it?

Dossonville. From you.

Valsin [suavely]. Sit down, Dossonville. [The latter, who is standing by a chair, obeys with a promptness more than military. Valsin turns smilingly to Madame de Laseyne.] Dossonville's instructions, however, did not include a "permit" to sail on the Jeune Pierrette. All of which, I confess, Citizeness, has very much the appearance of a trap! [He tosses the two papers upon the desk. Utterly dismayed, she makes no effort to secure them. He regards her with quizzical enjoyment.]

Anne. Ah—you—[She fails to speak coherently.]

Valsin. Dossonville has done very well. He procured your passport, brought your "disguises," planned your journey, even gave you directions how to find these lodgings in Boulogne. Indeed, I instructed him to omit nothing for your comfort. [He pauses for a moment.] If I am a spy, Citizeness Laseyne, at least I trust your gracious intelligence may not cling to the epithet "ordinary." My soul! but I appear to myself a most uncommon type of spy—a very intricate, complete, and unusual spy, in fact.

Anne [to herself, weeping]. Ah, poor Louis!

Valsin [cheerfully]. You are beginning to comprehend? That is well. Your niece's door is still ajar by the discreet width of a finger, so I assume that the Emigrant also begins to comprehend. Therefore I take my ease! [He seats himself in the most comfortable chair in the room, crossing his legs in a leisurely attitude, and lightly drumming the tips of his fingers together, the while his peaceful gaze is fixed upon the ceiling. His tone, as he continues, is casual.] You understand, my Dossonville, having long ago occupied this very apartment myself, I am serenely aware that the Emigrant can leave the other room only by the window; and as this is the fourth floor, and a proper number of bayonets in the courtyard below are arranged to receive any person active enough to descend by a rope of bed-clothes, one is confident that the said Emigrant will remain where he is. Let us make ourselves comfortable, for it is a delightful hour—an hour I have long promised myself. I am in a good humor. Let us all be happy. Citizeness Laseyne, enjoy yourself. Call me some bad names!

Anne [between her teeth]. If I could find one evil enough!

Valsin [slapping his knee delightedly]. There it is: the complete incompetence of your class. You poor aristocrats, you do not even know how to swear. Your ancestors knew how! They were fighters; they knew how to swear because they knew how to attack; you poor moderns have no profanity left in you, because, poisoned by idleness, you have forgotten even how to resist. And yet you thought yourselves on top, and so you were—but as foam is on top of the wave. You forgot that power, like genius, always comes from underneath, because it is produced only by turmoil. We have had to wring the neck of your feather-head court, because while the court was the nation the nation had its pockets picked. You were at the mercy of anybody with a pinch of brains: adventurers like Mazarin, like Fouquet, like Law, or that little commoner, the woman Fish, who called herself Pompadour and took France—France, merely!—from your King, and used it to her own pleasure. Then, at last, after the swindlers had well plucked you—at last, unfortunate creatures, the People got you! Citizeness, the People had starved: be assured they will eat you to the bone—and then eat the bone! You are helpless because you have learned nothing and forgotten everything. You have forgotten everything in this world except how to be fat!

Dossonville [applauding with unction]. Beautiful! It is beautiful, all that! A beautiful speech!

Valsin. Ass!

Dossonville [meekly]. Perfectly, perfectly.

Valsin [crossly]. That wasn't a speech; it was the truth. Citizeness Laseyne, so far as you are concerned, I am the People. [He extends his hand negligently, with open palm.] And I have got you. [He clenches his fingers, like a cook's on the neck of a fowl.] Like that! And I'm going to take you back to Paris, you and the Emigrant. [She stands in an attitude eloquent of despair. His glance roves from her to the door of the other room, which is still slightly ajar; and, smiling at some fugitive thought, he continues, deliberately.] I take you: you and your brother—and that rather pretty little person who traveled with you. [There is a breathless exclamation from the other side of the door, which is flung open violently, as Eloise—flushed, radiant with anger, and altogether magnificent—sweeps into the room to confront Valsin.]

Eloise [slamming the door behind her]. Leave this Jack-in-Office to me, Anne!

Dossonville [dazed by the vision]. Lord! What glory! [He rises, bowing profoundly, muttering hoarsely.] Oh, eyes! Oh, hair! Look at her shape! Her chin! The divine—

Valsin [getting up and patting him reassuringly on the back]. The lady perceives her effect, my Dossonville. It is no novelty. Sit down, my Dossonville. [The still murmurous Dossonville obeys Valsin turns to Eloise, a brilliant light in his eyes.] Let me greet one of the nieces of Widow Balsage—evidently not the sleepy one, and certainly not ill. Health so transcendent—

Eloise [placing her hand upon Madame de Laseyne's shoulder]. This is a clown, Anne. You need have no fear of him whatever. His petty authority does not extend to us.

Valsin [deferentially]. Will the niece of Widow Balsage explain why it does not?

Eloise [turning upon him fiercely]. Because the patriot Citizeness Eloise d'Anville is here!

Valsin [assuming an air of thoughtfulness]. Yes, she is here. That "permit" yonder even mentions her by name. It is curious. I shall have to go into that. Continue, niece.

Eloise [with supreme haughtiness]. This lady is under her protection.

Valsin [growing red]. Pardon. Under whose protection?

Eloise [sulphurously]. Under the protection of Eloise d'Anville! [This has a frightful effect upon Valsin; his face becomes contorted; he clutches at his throat, apparently half strangled, staggers, and falls choking into the easy-chair he has formerly occupied.]

Valsin [gasping, coughing, incoherent]. Under the pro—the protection—[He explodes into peal after peal of uproarious laughter.] The protection of—Aha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho! [He rocks himself back and forth unappeasably.]

Eloise [with a slight lift of the eyebrows]. This man is an idiot.

Valsin [during an abatement of his attack]. Oh, pardon! It is—too—much—too much for me! You say—these people are—

Eloise [stamping her foot]. Under the protection of Eloise d'Anville, imbecile! You cannot touch them. She wills it! [At this, Valsin shouts as if pleading for mercy, and beats the air with his hands. He struggles to his feet and, pounding himself upon the chest, walks to and fro in the effort to control his convulsion.]

Eloise [to Anne, under cover of the noise he makes]. I was wrong: he is not an idiot.

Anne [despairingly]. He laughs at you.

Eloise [in a quick whisper]. Out of bluster; because he is afraid. He is badly frightened. I know just what to do. Go into the other room with Louis. Anne [protesting weakly]. I can't hope—

Eloise [flashing from a cloud]. You failed, didn't you? [Madame de Laseyne, after a tearful perusal of the stern resourcefulness now written in the younger woman's eyes, succumbs with a piteous gesture of assent and goes out forlornly. Eloise closes the door and stands with her back to it.]

Valsin [paying no attention to them]. Eloise d'Anville! [Still pacing the room in the struggle to subdue his hilarity.] This young citizeness speaks of the protection of Eloise d'Anville! [Leaning feebly upon Dossonville's shoulder.] Do you hear, my Dossonville? It is an ecstasy. Ecstasize, then. Scream, Dossonville!

Dossonville [puzzled, but evidently accustomed to being so, cackles instantly]. Perfectly. Ha, ha! The citizeness is not only stirringly beautiful, she is also—

Valsin. She is also a wit. Susceptible henchman, concentrate your thoughts upon domesticity. In this presence remember your wife!

Eloise [peremptorily]. Dismiss that person. I have something to say to you.

Valsin [wiping his eyes]. Dossonville, you are not required. We are going to be sentimental, and heaven knows you are not the moon. In fact, you are a fat old man. Exit, obesity! Go somewhere and think about your children. Flit, whale!