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Madame—

      Françoise. My husband will return soon, Monsieur.

      Guérin [brightening]. Good!

      Françoise. Will you wait for him here in the studio?

      Guérin [advancing]. Really, Madame, it would be most ungrateful of me to refuse your kindness.

      Françoise. Here are magazines and newspapers—I shall ask to be excused. [As she is about to leave.] It was rather difficult to make you stay!

      Guérin. Forgive me, Madame. [Aside ironically.] Too bad! She's decidedly charming!

      [Having gone up-stage, Françoise suddenly returns.]

      Françoise. It seems a little strange to you, Monsieur—doesn't it?—to see a woman in this bachelor studio—quite at home?

      Guérin. Why, Madame—

      Françoise. Before leaving you—which I shall do in a moment—you must know that there is one woman who is very glad to know you have returned to Paris!

      Guérin. We just arrived this week.

      Françoise. Good!

      Guérin [ironically]. It's so long since I've seen Marcel.

      Françoise. Three years.

      Guérin. So many things have happened since!

      Françoise. You find him a married man, for one thing—

      Guérin. Happily married!

      Françoise. Yes, happily!

      Guérin. Dear old Marcel! I'll be so glad to see him!

      Françoise. I see you haven't forgotten my husband, Monsieur. Thank you!

      Guérin. How can I help admiring so stout and loyal a heart as his!

      Françoise. You'll have to like me, too!

      Guérin. I already do.

      Françoise. Really? Then you believe everything you write?

      Guérin. Yes, Madame.

      Françoise. Take care! This morning I was re-reading one of your letters, in which you promised me your heartiest support. [Offering him her hand.] Then we're friends, are we not?

      Guérin [after hesitating, takes her hand]. Good friends, Madame!

      Françoise. Word of honor?

      Guérin. Word of honor!

      Françoise [sitting]. Then I'll stay. Sit down, and let's talk. [Guérin is uncertain.] We have so much to say to each other! Let's talk about you first.

      Guérin [forced to sit down]. About me? But I—

      Françoise. Yes, about you.

      Guérin [quickly]. No, about your happiness, your welfare.

      Françoise. About my great happiness!

      Guérin [ironically]. Let us speak about your—existence—with which you are so content. I must know all the happiness of this house!

      Françoise. Happy people never have anything to say.

      Guérin. You never have troubles, I presume?

      Françoise. None, so far.

      Guérin. But what might happen? To-day you are living peacefully with Marcel, a man whose marriage was, it seems, strongly opposed. Life owes you no more than it has already given you.

      Françoise. My happiness is complete. I had never imagined that a man's goodness could make a woman so happy!

      Guérin. Goodness?

      Françoise. Of course!

      Guérin. Love, you mean Madame!

      Françoise. Oh, Marcel's love for me—!

      Guérin. Something lacking?

      Françoise. No!

      Guérin [interested]. Tell me. Am I not your friend?

      Françoise. Seriously, Monsieur, you know him very well: how could he be in love with me? Is it even possible? He allows one to love him, and I ask nothing more.

      Guérin. Nothing?

      Françoise. Only to be allowed to continue. [Gesture from Guérin.] I am not like other women. I don't ask for rights; but I do demand tenderness, and consideration. He is free, I am not—I'll admit that. But I don't mind, I only hope that we may continue as we are!

      Guérin. Have you some presentiment, Madame?

      Françoise. I am afraid, Monsieur. My happiness is not of the proud, demonstrative variety, it is a kind of happiness that is continually trembling for its safety. If I told you—

      Guérin. Do tell me!

      Françoise. Later! How I pity any one who loves and has to suffer for it!

      Guérin [surprised]. You—!

      Françoise. I am not on the side of the jealous, of the betrayed—

      Guérin [aside, sympathetically]. Poor little woman! [With great sincerity.] Then you are not sure of him?

      Françoise [more and more excited]. He is Marcel! Admit for a moment that he loves me to-day—I want so to believe it! To-morrow will he love me? Does he himself know whether he will love me then? Isn't he at the mercy of a whim, a passing fancy—of the weather, or the appearance of the first woman he happens to meet? I am only twenty, and I am not always as careful as I might be. Happiness is so difficult!

      Guérin. Yes, it is. [To himself.] It is! [To Françoise.] Perhaps you are conscientious, too sincere?

      Françoise. I feel that; yes, I think I am, but every time I try to hide my affection from him, he becomes indifferent, almost mean—as if he were glad to be relieved of a duty—of being good!

      Guérin. So it's come to that!

      Françoise. You see, Marcel can't get used to the idea that his other life is over, dead and buried, that he's married for good—that he must do as others do. I do my best and tell him, but my very presence only reminds him of his duties as a husband. For instance [interrupting herself]. Here I am telling you all this—

      Guérin. Oh!—Please.

      Françoise [bitterly]. He likes to go out alone at night, without me. He knows me well enough to understand that his being away makes me very unhappy, and as a matter of form, of common courtesy, he asks me to go with him. I try to reason and convince myself that he doesn't mean what he says, but I can't help feeling sincerely happy when once in a while I do accept his invitation. But the moment we leave the house I realize my mistake. Then he pretends to be in high spirits, but I know all the time he is acting a part; and when we come home again he lets drop without fail some hint about having lost his liberty; he says he took me out in a moment of weakness, that he really wanted to be alone.

      Guérin [interrupting]. And when he does go out alone?

      Françoise. Then I am most unhappy; I'm in torment for hours and hours. I wonder where he can be, and then I'm afraid he won't come back at all. When the door opens, when I hear him come in, I'm so happy I pay no attention to what he tells me. But I made a solemn vow never to show the least sign of jealousy. My face is always tranquil, and what I say to him never betrays what I feel. I never knowingly betray myself, but his taking way, his tenderness, soon make me confess every fear; then he turns round and, using my own confession as a weapon, shows me how wrong I am to be afraid and suspicious. And when sometimes I say nothing to him, even when he tries to make me confess, he punishes me most severely by telling me stories of his affairs, narrow escapes, and all

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