LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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