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notes about cookery receipts, and housekeeping tips, and hair lotions, and that sort of thing.

      Mademoiselle Grégoire. Quite a good thing.

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

      Mademoiselle Grégoire. I'm not at all surprised.

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

      Mademoiselle Grégoire. It makes her furious?

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

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

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

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

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

      Mademoiselle Grégoire. All men's names?

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

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

      Thérèse. That's snobbery! It's Madame Nérisse's pen-name.

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

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

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

      Thérèse. This is Mademoiselle de Meuriot. [Introducing Mademoiselle Grégoire] Our new contributor.

      Mademoiselle de Meuriot. You're welcome, Mademoiselle.

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

      Madame Nérisse. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest.

      Mademoiselle Grégoire looks up at Madame Nérisse.

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

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

      Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Yes, we will.

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

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

      Thérèse. Yes, and she looks capable.

      Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Let's get to work.

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

      Thérèse. Here! [Holding out the first letter]

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

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

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

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

      Mademoiselle de Meuriot. How about your godmother?

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

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

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

      Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Not more alone than I am.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Yes, I understand, my dear. I see my own youth over again. [Sadly] Oh, I hope that you—but I don't want to rouse up those old ghosts; I should only distress you. Perhaps lives like mine are necessary, if it's only to throw into relief lives that are more beautiful than mine. Keep your lovely dreams.

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