MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in the clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge my weapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. You think that my modesty shrinks before the victor"s wreath. On the contrary, I despise it: it is not enough for me. You think I am afraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits over there and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which you don"t suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched gla.s.s off the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person--you absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. You stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself already beaten. As I crush this gla.s.s under my foot, so I will crush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no longer yours.
HENRIETTE. Good! That"s the way! Well spoken, my hero!
MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful helper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied?
HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I"ll keep it--I think you love me, Maurice.
MAURICE. Of course I do--Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man"s courage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where do you lead me? I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when I heard them speak of you. And when I saw you in the doorway, your soul poured itself into mine. And when you left, I could still feel your presence in my arms. I wanted to flee from you, but something held me back, and this evening we have been driven together as the prey is driven into the hunter"s net. Whose is the fault? Your friend"s, who pandered for us!
HENRIETTE. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what does it mean?--Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us together before. He is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, to which he had no right himself. I am jealous of him on your behalf. I hate him because he has cheated you out of your mistress. I should like to blot him from the host of the living, and his memory with him--wipe him out of the past even, make him unmade, unborn!
MAURICE. Well, we"ll bury him beneath our own memories. We"ll cover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, and then we"ll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will never look up again. [Raising his gla.s.s] Our fate is sealed. Woe unto us! What will come next?
HENRIETTE. Next comes the new era--What have you in that package?
MAURICE. I cannot remember.
HENRIETTE. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair of gloves] That tie is a fright! It must have cost at least fifty centimes.
MAURICE. [s.n.a.t.c.hing the things away from her] Don"t you touch them!
HENRIETTE. They are from her?
MAURICE. Yes, they are.
HENRIETTE. Give them to me.
MAURICE. No, she"s better than we, better than everybody else.
HENRIETTE. I don"t believe it. She is simply stupider and stingier. One who weeps because you order champagne--
MAURICE. When the child was without stockings. Yes, she is a good woman.
HENRIETTE. Philistine! You"ll never be an artist. But I am an artist, and I"ll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper"s cap instead of the laurel wreath--Her name is Jeanne?
MAURICE. How do you know?
HENRIETTE. Why, that"s the name of all housekeepers.
MAURICE. Henriette!
(HENRIETTE takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into the fireplace.)
MAURICE. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women.
You shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, then I"ll send you packing.
HENRIETTE. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to me?
MAURICE. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself away. But I believe it must be those qualities which you have and I lack. I believe that the evil within you draws me with the irresistible lure of novelty.
HENRIETTE. Have you ever committed a crime?
MAURICE. No real one. Have you?
HENRIETTE. Yes.
MAURICE. Well, how did you find it?
HENRIETTE. It was greater than to perform a good deed, for by that we are placed on equality with others; it was greater than to perform some act of heroism, for by that we are raised above others and rewarded. That crime placed me outside and beyond life, society, and my fellow-beings. Since then I am living only a partial life, a sort of dream life, and that"s why reality never gets a hold on me.
MAURICE. What was it you did?
HENRIETTE. I won"t tell, for then you would get scared again.
MAURICE. Can you never be found out?
HENRIETTE. Never. But that does not prevent me from seeing, frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where the scaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never dare to open a pack of cards, as I always turn up the five-spot of diamonds.
MAURICE. Was it that kind of a crime?
HENRIETTE. Yes, it was that kind.
MAURICE. Of course, it"s horrible, but it is interesting. Have you no conscience?
HENRIETTE. None, but I should be grateful if you would talk of something else.
MAURICE. Suppose we talk of--love?
HENRIETTE. Of that you don"t talk until it is over.
MAURICE. Have you been in love with Adolphe?
HENRIETTE. I don"t know. The goodness of his nature drew me like some beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. Yet there was much about his person that offended my eye, so that I had to spend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, before I could make a presentable figure of him. When he talked, I could notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson was often badly digested and awkwardly applied. You can imagine then how miserable the copy must appear now, when I am permitted to study the original. That"s why he was afraid of having us two meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his time was up.
MAURICE. Poor Adolphe!
HENRIETTE. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must be suffering beyond all bounds--
MAURICE. Sh! Somebody is coming.
HENRIETTE. I wonder if it could be he?
MAURICE. That would be unbearable.
HENRIETTE. No, it isn"t he, but if it had been, how do you think the situation would have shaped itself?
MAURICE. At first he would have been a little sore at you because he had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried to find us in several other cafes--but his soreness would have changed into pleasure at finding us--and seeing that we had not deceived him. And in the joy at having wronged us by his suspicions, he would love both of us. And so it would make him happy to notice that we had become such good friends. It had always been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dream that the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set the world a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"Yes, I trust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partly because your feelings are tied up elsewhere."