Читать книгу Woman on Her Own, False Gods and The Red Robe - Eugène Brieux - Страница 10

He goes out.

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

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

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

Madame Guéret [imploring] Could it be stopped?

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

Madame Guéret. Nobody would know anything about it—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Féliat. You'll publish her photograph?

Madame Nérisse. In her dress as Kalekairi.

Madame Guéret. In her dress as Kalekairi!

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

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

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

She goes out.

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

Madame Guéret goes out. Féliat, left alone, strolls to the door and looks in the direction in which Madame Nérisse had seen Maud and Nadia. After a moment he shows signs of indignation.

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

Lucienne and Thérèse in ordinary dress come in and notice what Féliat is doing.

Thérèse [to Lucienne] What is he doing?

Lucienne. What's the matter?

They advance to see what has caused his perturbation. He hears them and turns.

Féliat. It is incredible!

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

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

Lucienne. Let's see.

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

Thérèse [laughing] What must you say?

Féliat. Nothing.

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

Féliat. No, no, not as bad.

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

Féliat. But that doesn't justify—

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

Lucienne. We're sharpening our weapons.

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. Oh, experience! Well, you know—

Lucienne. Oh, experience!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. Shall we say a safety valve?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Féliat. I seem to have heard that before.

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

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

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

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

Lucienne. Let's all go together.

Féliat. Thanks, I can find my way.

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

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

He goes out.

Thérèse. You shocked the poor old boy.

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

Thérèse. What's settled?

Lucienne. I'm engaged.

Thérèse. You don't say so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucienne. Telling him what?

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

Lucienne. Lost all your money!

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

Lucienne. When?

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

Lucienne. What will you do?

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

Lucienne. You think he'll give you up?

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

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

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

Lucienne. My dearest! And you love him so!

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

Lucienne. It might do you good!

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

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

Thérèse. I shall have to be.

Lucienne. Then you'll break off the engagement?

Thérèse. Yes. I shall never see him again.

Lucienne. Never see him again!

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

Lucienne. He'll be horribly unhappy.

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

Lucienne. Persuade him to!

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

Lucienne. How you love him!

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

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

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

Lucienne. But you have no money—

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

Lucienne. Good-night, Thérèse.

She goes out.

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

Thérèse. Yes, godmamma.

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

Guéret. You'll have to be brave, Thérèse.

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

Thérèse. Yes.

Madame Guéret. Is that all you have to say?

Thérèse. I knew it already.

Madame Guéret. You knew it? Who told you?

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

Madame Guéret. Well, I declare!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. I'm very sorry. But you—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. But I am going to live in Paris.

Guéret. Then it is I who do not understand.

Thérèse. All the same—[A silence]

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

Thérèse [simply] I do, godmamma.

Féliat. Alone!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madame Guéret. Yes, indeed.

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. Yes, godmamma.

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

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

Thérèse. I'll work.

Madame Guéret. You don't mean that seriously?

Thérèse. Yes, godmamma.

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

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

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

Thérèse. I'm sure it won't.

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

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

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

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

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

Madame Guéret. Like a workgirl.

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

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. All the same—

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

Guéret. But your father left you in my care.

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

Guéret. It's pretty easy to guess.

Madame Guéret. Yes, indeed.

Guéret. You would live with us.

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

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

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

Thérèse. You mean I should do nothing.

Guéret. Nothing! No, not nothing.

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

Guéret. You were brought up to that.

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

Guéret. Afterwards?

Thérèse. How long would that last?

Guéret. Until you marry.

Thérèse. I shall never marry.

Guéret. Why not?

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

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

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

Féliat. Be a bluestocking?

Thérèse. Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madame Guéret. Most willingly.

Guéret [to his wife] Come, Marguerite.

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. I'm grateful to you all.

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

Thérèse. I know.

Féliat. And—

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

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

Thérèse. Expecting what?

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

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

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

Thérèse. I can keep my tears to myself.

Féliat. Yes——Oh, I——at least——

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

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

Thérèse. I shan't change my mind.

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

Thérèse. With all my heart.

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

Thérèse. I'm extremely flattered.

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

Thérèse. But I've not decided to marry.

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

Thérèse. I haven't the slightest intention of—

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

Thérèse. I know them both.

Féliat. Yes; but—

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

Féliat. Certainly not.

Thérèse. There, you see.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. This very evening.

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

Thérèse. You needn't trouble about that.

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

Thérèse. I see.

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

Thérèse [discouraged] Yes, yes; oh yes.

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

Thérèse. I quite understand.

Féliat. People would think very badly of you.

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

Féliat. Then I may trust you?

Thérèse. You may trust me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. I like this one too.

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

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

Madame Nérisse. Anything I can do for you?

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

Madame Nérisse. I will indeed.

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

Madame Nérisse. Dear Thérèse, ask Madame Guéret to tell you what I said to her just now about that very thing.

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

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

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

Madame Nérisse. As many as you can.

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

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

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

Madame Nérisse. What an idea!

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

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

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

Madame Nérisse [with less confidence] Certainly.

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. I could write about very different subjects.

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

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

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

Thérèse. We'll try and manage it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thérèse. Of course I do. But—

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

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

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

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

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