Scene: A study in JACQUES’ apartment. It has a bookish, comfortable appearance. There are doors at back to the hall, at right to a bedroom and at left to a small salon or reception room. A large desk stands center. A few good-sized chairs and a massive leather divan are placed about.
It is a month later.
At the rise JACQUES is discovered seated, musing deeply, his eyes staring ahead. On his lap he has an open snapshot album neglected for the moment.
A door bell sounds, JACQUES scowls, regards his watch and, rising, murmurs, “Oh, well!”
GEORGES, his man, enters.
GEORGES: Are you at home, monsieur?
JACQUES: I’m expecting Madame Meillant. It’s probably she.
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur. [He goes out. JACQUES places the album in a drawer of desk. GEORGES returns.] It’s not Madame Meillant, monsieur; it’s Mademoiselle de Montcel.
JACQUES: [Surprised.] Mademoiselle de Montcel?
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur.
JACQUES: [Nervously.] Have you shown her into the salon?
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur.
JACQUES: Very well. [He goes toward door which leads to the salon.] Oh! When Madame Meillant comes tell her—tell her that I telephoned I’d be a bit late. Say that I hope she’ll forgive me and ask if she’d mind coming back at four, if that’s convenient. [Looks at his watch. That’s it, at four.
GEORGES: Very good, monsieur. [He goes out. JACQUES opens door to salon.]
JACQUES: Do come in—[Surprised.] Why, it’s—? Well! My man said it was Mademoiselle de Montcel so I thought—
GISELE: [entering.] That it was Irene?
JACQUES: Yes.
GISELE: Oh, I’m so sorry, Jacques.
JACQUES: But not at all—why?
GISELE: Because you must be terribly disappointed!
JACQUES: Not at all, my dear. [Closes door.] I’m delighted to see you. A bit surprised, but delighted.
GISELE: You’re surprised because you think that a girl of my age shouldn’t come alone to a man’s apartment, is that it? But I didn’t come alone. Mademoiselle Marchand is waiting downstairs in the car. JACQUES: You’ve no need to explain. Do sit down!
GISELE: I’ve just one thing to tell you.
JACQUES: Sit down anyway.
GISELE: [Sits.] At first I thought I’d telephone you this morning to ask when I could come, but the phone’s in Irene’s room and I didn’t want her to hear.
JACQUES: I see.
GISELE: So instead I came early to have a better chance of finding you in... [She hesitates.] Jacques, perhaps you’re going to think that what I’m doing is a bit ridiculous and even uncalled for—but I don’t care. It’s just this—I’ve come to tell you that Irene is very unhappy. JACQUES: Irene?
GISELE: Yes... and you can believe me... I’m saying this only because I’m sure of it. For some time now she’s been acting in a very strange, nervous way. Several times it seemed to me that her eyes were rather red. Mademoiselle Marchand had also noticed it. And the other day I went into her room to phone, thinking she’d gone out, and, although she turned her face away, I saw she was crying.
JACQUES: Ah?
GISELE: For Irene to cry means that something’s really wrong. I can’t bear seeing her wretched! Anything rather than that. I thought it over and decided you didn’t know about it and that you should. That’s why I’ve come. So, Jacques—that’s all. [A pause.] Are you annoyed with me for telling you this?
JACQUES: I’m not annoyed with you at all, my dear,—only I must confess that I don’t quite understand why you thought you ought to tell me about it!
GISELE: What?
JACQUES: I’m very fond of Irene but I don’t see that I—
GISELE: [Smiling.] Jacques...papa told me before he left.
JACQUES: [Surprised and rather annoyed.] What did he tell you?
GISELE: Oh, don’t worry! He swore me to secrecy—and you may be sure I’ll never tell a soul. Besides I realize that you both want to think things over, and that you don’t feel free to commit yourself definitely just now because of your business troubles... I know all that... [JACQUES is disturbed and wretched.] ... Are you cross that papa told me?
JACQUES: No, no, it doesn’t matter.
GISELE: You see, it would have been difficult for him not to say something. It had been arranged that we were to go to Rome with him. Then suddenly plans are changed; we’re to remain here—with Mademoiselle Marchand living at the house as chaperon. So papa probably felt obliged to give me some explanation. He didn’t realize that I had already guessed everything.
JACQUES: What—what had you guessed?
GISELE: Everything! After all, it wasn’t so brilliant of me! I knew that Irene wanted to stay in Paris and that papa wouldn’t hear of it. Then on top of that, you come to see Irene, you have a talk with papa, and the same evening he announces to Irene that she may remain and that he’ll leave me with her. Well, I didn’t have to be so awfully bright to understand what all that meant. [Rises. And, Jacques, I was so happy when I did understand. I can’t begin to tell you how happy!
JACQUES: Really?
GISELE: I’m positive you’re just made for one another! Don’t you think so too?
JACQUES: Of course, my dear.
GISELE: So now you understand why I came?
JACQUES: I understand.
GISELE: Was it wrong of me to come?
JACQUES: No.
GISELE: And it’s true that you had noticed nothing, isn’t it?
JACQUES: Nothing.
GISELE: I was sure of it! I said to Mademoiselle Marchand: “If Jacques asked papa to leave Irene in Paris, it’s because he loves her, and if he loves her he can’t want her to be miserable ... or else he hasn’t noticed it. And, naturally, if no one does anything it all might go on forever! And it must not go on.” [She takes his hand.] Must it, Jacques?
JACQUES: No, it mustn’t, Gisele dear. Only, don’t you see—
GISELE: No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know anything. It’s none of my business. I’ve told you what I wanted to say. The rest is your affair. I ask just one thing—never let Irene know I came here, because she’d never forgive me for it. Promise?
JACQUES: I promise.
GISELE: Thank you. [She lets go his hand.]
JACQUES: Wait, please don’t go yet, do you mind? [He walks about, thinking, then stops in front of her.] Do you trust me, Gisele?
GISELE: [Surprised and a bit worried.] Why, Jacques, of course!
JACQUES: Enough to believe me without asking for explanations? GISELE: [Still anxious.] Yes, what is it?
JACQUES: You think—and it’s natural enough you should—that I could prevent Irene’s being unhappy if I wanted to, don’t you?
GISELE: Yes.
JACQUES: Well, you’re mistaken.
GISELE: What?
JACQUES: I can do nothing for her... or so little...
GISELE: You?
JACQUES: I.
GISELE: Then it’s not because of you that she’s unhappy?
JACQUES: No.
GISELE: [Astonished.] No?...
JACQUES: If it were because of me, believe me she’d not be unhappy long. Of course I can try to do something, for her. It may accomplish nothing, but I can try. Only for that I’ll need you.
GISELE: Me?
JACQUES: Yes. I need some information that only you can give me. If I knew of any one else to turn to, I would, but, if you think my questions are indiscreet or if you believe they are prompted by anything but my desire to see Irene happy, don’t answer them.
GISELE: What do you want to know?
JACQUES: I’d like to know something about the life she leads, the people she sees.
GISELE: The people she sees? Why you, mostly.
JACQUES: Me?
GISELE: Yes.
JACQUES: When does she see me?
GISELE: Well—I don’t know. Don’t you always have tea together?
JACQUES: Did she tell you that?
GISELE: [Puzzled.] I had understood that... I might have been mistaken.
JACQUES: [After a pause.] And besides myself, whom does she see?
GISELE: Well, you know, she doesn’t tell me a great deal about what she does.
JACQUES: When she goes out, doesn’t she ever tell you where she is going?
GISELE: She goes to the studio every day after lunch.
JACQUES: Ah, yes ... And at night, does she ever go out?
GISELE: At night? Oh, almost never. She’s been once or twice to the theater or a concert, but that’s all.
JACQUES: Alone?
GISELE: No, with Monsieur and Madame d’Aiguines.
JACQUES: Oh. [After a pause.] She met them in Italy, didn’t she?
GISELE: Yes, in Florence, last year.
JACQUES: Do you ever see them?
GISELE: I? Never!
JACQUES: Why?
GISELE: I don’t know them.
JACQUES: How is it you’ve never met them if Irene is so intimate with them?
GISELE: That’s no reason. She never suggested my meeting them and I never asked to.
JACQUES: Why? Don’t you like them?
GISELE: But I don’t know them.
JACQUES: Does she ever speak to you about them?
GISELE: No, never.
JACQUES: And have you never had curiosity enough to ask her questions about them?
GISELE: I never ask Irene questions. When she speaks to me first about some one or something—well and good. But when she doesn’t, she doesn’t, that’s all.
JACQUES: So, you know nothing about the d’Aiguines?
GISELE: Very little. I know that she is Polish or Austrian, I don’t remember which.
JACQUES: But you know nothing about him?
GISELE: Nothing.
JACQUES: You don’t know what he does, whether he has any business?
GISELE: I’ve no idea.
JACQUES: You don’t know either—what he’s like?
GISELE: Oh, his looks?
JACQUES: Yes.
GISELE: He’s tall, clean shaven—rather smart.
JACQUES: Then you’ve seen him?
GISELE: Yes.
JACQUES: Where have you seen him?
GISELE: At the front door one evening when he had brought Irene home. I happened to be going in at the same time and saw him. Why?
JACQUES: I went to school with a chap by the name of d’Aiguines. I was wondering if it were the same.
GISELE: Oh, I don’t think so. He’s quite a bit older you.
JACQUES: Ah? ... Perhaps he’s a cousin, then ... There are several branches of the family... [Pause.] Is that the only time you’ve ever met him?
GISELE: Yes. I heard his voice on the telephone one day when he called up and Irene was out. That’s all.
JACQUES: Does he ever come to see her?
GISELE: No, never—
JACQUES: Do you know where they live?
GISELE: Avenue Victor Hugo, but I’ve forgotten the number. They’re in the telephone book.
JACQUES: [Thoughtful.] Good.
GISELE: The d’Aiguines interest you as much as that?
JACQUES: Oh! They interest me—because they’re friends of Irene, that’s all.
GISELE: Is that all you wanted to ask me?
JACQUES: Yes, my dear, thank you. You haven’t told me much I didn’t already know, as a matter of fact. But our talk hasn’t been without value. [Pause.] Oh !—it’s understood that Irene must never know about it.
GISELE: I promise you that.
JACQUES: I know I can trust you.
GISELE: [Hesitatingly] Jacques, before I go—I should like to—to ask you a question.
JACQUES: Why, certainly.
GISELE: Can’t you tell me what you’re going to do to help Irene?
JACQUES: No, Gisele. Besides my plan has such a slight chance of success ...
GISELE: Yes, but you wouldn’t attempt it, would you, if you didn’t think it might succeed?
JACQUES: Well, let’s say the chances are about one in ten.
GISELE: Well, if it does succeed would it—would it mean that you’d get married? Tell me?
JACQUES: No.
GISELE: Ah! [Pause.] And yet you love her?
JACQUES: [Smiling wanly.] Do you believe so?
GISELE: Oh, come! I’ve known it for ever so long. You’ve been in love with her ever since the summer you spent at Montcel.
JACQUES: But that’s not enough, you see.
GISELE: You mean that she doesn’t love you?
JACQUES: Yes, just that.
GISELE: Are you sure?
JACQUES: Absolutely.
GISELE: What a pity! ... [She hesitates; then realizes there is no more to be said.] Good-by, Jacques.
JACQUES: Good-by, dear child. [She looks at him sadly, takes his hand, then with sudden, tender movement, kisses him on both cheeks and exits. He goes with her, enters again a few seconds later, sits at his desk and ponders. Picks up telephone book, looks up a number, then calls.]
Passy 83-42... Hello, is this Monsieur d’Aiguines’ house? ... Is Monsieur d’Aiguines at home? ... Oh! ... well, can you give me his office address? Where?... [He writes on pad.] Thank you very much. Do you happen to know until what time he’ll be there?... Thank you. [Hangs up receiver, takes writing-paper and begins to write. After writing a few lines, re-reads what he’s written, appears irritated, crumples it up and takes a fresh sheet. When he has finished, he rings, puts letter in envelope, addresses it. GEORGES enters.]
GEORGES: Did you ring, monsieur?
JACQUES: Yes. Jump into a taxi and take this letter to this address. It’s a bank. If they tell you that the gentleman is in, deliver the letter and wait for an answer. [A door bell is heard.] If he’s not in, bring me back the letter and ask if there is a chance of finding him there to-morrow morning. You needn’t leave my name—it’s not necessary.
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur.
JACQUES: You quite understand?
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur.
JACQUES: See who is at the door.
GEORGES: [Going toward door, back.] If it is Madame Meillant, monsieur, what shall I say? [Bell rings again with insistence.]
JACQUES: [Smiling] It is Madame Meillant—show her in. [GEORGES goes out, enters a moment later with FRANÇOISE, an exceedingly handsome young woman, smartly attired. GEORGES leaves.]
FRANÇOISE: Well, I thought you were going to leave me planted on the doorstep. You must tell Georges to open the door more quickly. One always runs into some one on stairways. [She moves about, very much at home.]
JACQUES: I love your plural! [Lights cigarette at desk.]
FRANÇOISE: What?
JACQUES: Nothing. It’s not Georges’ fault, it’s mine. I was giving him an order.
FRANÇOISE: Huh, that only makes it worse! [After pause, turns to him.] Hullo, dear!
JACQUES: Hullo, Françoise.
FRANÇOISE: Well! After all...!
JACQUES: But you don’t give me a chance to open my mouth. [He gives her a light kiss.]
FRANÇOISE: You’re not in a very pleasant mood to-day.
JACQUES: I? Of course, I am.
FRANÇOISE: Why didn’t you come to the Van Gartens’ last night?
JACQUES: I couldn’t get there.
FRANÇOISE: I waited until twelve-thirty for you to come, and I had a beastly headache. At least you might have let me know.
JACQUES: But I told you it wasn’t likely I’d be there.
FRANÇOISE: I know. But I’d begged you so hard to at least try to call for me, that I thought surely you’d make a special effort. Apparently the day is past for me to ask that sort of thing.
JACQUES: I’m so sorry, Françoise.
FRANÇOISE: What were you doing that was so entertaining—if I’m not being indiscreet?
JACQUES: I was dining at my brother’s house and it was very late when I left.
FRANÇOISE: Couldn’t you have told him you were due at a party?
JACQUES: He’d just come back to town. I hadn’t seen him for two months.
FRANÇOISE: Evidently that was more amusing than coming to fetch me.
JACQUES: Well, yes. Frankly, you know I hate those parties—
FRANÇOISE: You hate everything I like.
JACQUES: No, I don’t, my dear.
FRANÇOISE: You do. It’s always like that—I’m beginning to get used to it. [Pause.] Only it’s possible you made a mistake by not coming last night—
JACQUES: [His thoughts elsewhere] Really?
FRANÇOISE: Oh, I say that, but really everything’s of so little interest to you now—
JACQUES: What’s of so little interest to me?
FRANÇOISE: Well, for instance, that some one should have paid me—very marked attention.
JACQUES: Some one paid you very marked attention?
FRANÇOISE: YES—[Pause.] Oh, you know well enough that when a woman has been seen frequently with the same man, and then suddenly is noticed arriving and leaving alone, other men begin to take new interest in her. Besides, last night, I had on a very becoming gown—
JACQUES: Which one?
FRANÇOISE: You haven’t seen it. I had hesitated before ordering it because of you—imagine that!—I thought you might find it rather décolleté. But I’m glad I took it now. It was a terrific success!
JACQUES: I’m so glad, darling!
FRANÇOISE: I knew it was a sensation as soon as I arrived—from the way the women looked at it!
JACQUES: Not by the way the men looked at it?
FRANÇOISE: Yes, but a bit later. Women notice that sort of thing more quickly.
JACQUES: Ah?
FRANÇOISE: Then, too, I think that I was in great form last night.
JACQUES: In spite of the headache?
FRANÇOISE: In spite of the headache. At least I was told so any number of times.
JACQUES: By whom, for instance?
FRANÇOISE: What do you care?
JACQUES: I’m very interested. You don’t doubt that, I hope?
FRANÇOISE: Well, let me see . . . Several of the men who were there . . . your friend Moreuil, by the way, didn’t leave my side all evening.
JACQUES: Oh! I thought he was in America?
FRANÇOISE: He’s come back—come back, what’s more, an amorous devil. He insisted on seeing me to my door, and he was about to suggest coming up with me.
JACQUES: Not really?
FRANÇOISE: I think in fact—between ourselves—that he did suggest it.
JACQUES: [Smiling indifferently.] Good old Moreuil. [Puts out cigarette. FRANÇOISE is piqued and gives him a glowering look.] And so, you were saying that he—
FRANÇOISE: [Rises impatiently.] Oh! Please! That’s enough, isn’t it? Let’s speak about something else!
JACQUES: As you say.
FRANÇOISE: Listen, Jacques. When I came I’d no idea of making a scene. But it really begins to look as if you were trying to exasperate me! I’ve stood for a great deal for some time, but this is too much!
JACQUES: All right, let’s have it!
FRANÇOISE: I understand well enough that you don’t love me any more; that’s quite within your rights. But that being the case, why not say it? We’ve never sworn eternal fidelity, have we? Be frank about it for once—it would be so much better.
JACQUES: But nothing is changed, Françoise.
FRANÇOISE: Ah, you think not, do you? . . . Well, let me tell you that if you had never shown more ardor than you have to-day I never would have been to you what I have. Ah! . . . No! . . . I realize now that I gave in much too soon. You’d have loved me more if I had made you want me longer. I liked you and let you see that I did; so much the worse for me. At least in the beginning I could entertain some illusions about our love! But now—!
JACQUES: I give you my word, Francoise, that my feeling for you has not changed in the least.
FRANÇOISE: What does that mean?
JACQUES: Well, that—
FRANÇOISE: That you have never loved me, is that it?
JACQUES: I didn’t say that.
FRANÇOISE: But it’s what you’re thinking. Well, at least you’re being frank about it, thank heaven! At last! But if you never loved me why did you ask me to become—to become your—
JACQUES: [Breaking in quietly.] I might reply that I never I asked you to.
FRANÇOISE: You never asked me?
JACQUES: No, Françoise.
FRANÇOISE: So! Well, then I—
JACQUES: But don’t you remember—
FRANÇOISE: Then I suppose it was I who begged you to become my lover?
JACQUES: No—
FRANÇOISE: Well one of us must have done it—if not you—then it must be I!
JACQUES: Listen, Françoise, let’s speak about something else.
FRANÇOISE: No! Not until you’ve explained what you meant.
JACQUES: Let’s pretend that I didn’t say anything.
FRANÇOISE: No, no, no! You can’t get out of it like that. It would be too easy to insult a person, and then—
JACQUES: How have I insulted you?
FRANÇOISE: Well, if you don’t think it insulting to tell a woman who has been your mistress for six months that you never asked her to be, then just what is it?
JACQUES: In that case I offer all kinds of apologies. I simply yielded for the moment to the desire of relating what happened between us. I was wrong. Do forgive me.
FRANÇOISE: Relating what happened between us? You’re going back to that?
JACQUES: My dear, try to recall the first talk we had!
FRANÇOISE: Our first talk?
JACQUES: One of the first, if you prefer. It was at Versailles, by the lake. You had telephoned me in the morning to ask if I cared to motor out into the country. We left your car at the entrance of the grounds—if you remember—
FRANÇOISE: I remember, yes.
JACQUES: And you said: “The biggest mistake that women make is to select the same man to make love and to talk about it.” I thought that was an amusing idea and I replied, “One can hardly expect to be at the head of one’s class in both rhetoric and gymnastics!” You agreed with me and were charming enough to add that I must be at the foot of my class rhetoric! Finally, you said you saw no reason why two people who were physically attracted to each other should not establish an intimacy,—it being thoroughly understood that there would be no trespassing on the domain of sentiment. The idea delighted me, and as it was time for tea I suggested that we return to town and have it at my apartment . . . which you were good enough to accept . . . That is exactly how it all happened.
FRANÇOISE: And what has that to do with it?
JACQUES: I always thought that that day we settled the exact relation between us.
FRANÇOISE: [Shrugging her shoulders.] As if one meant seriously everything said at such times.
JACQUES: I meant what I said. I only undertook a relation I could abide by. If I had undertaken any other it would have been very unfair to you.
FRANÇOISE: You’re being that now, my dear. Do you think that falling in love with me was beneath you?
JACQUES: It’s not a question of that!
FRANÇOISE: Strange as it may seem to you, there are many men who feel differently about it.
JACQUES: But I’m aware of that, Françoise! You’re a very attractive woman and I know perfectly that there are many men who would like to be in my place. I’m sorry I can’t make myself more clear. I only meant to say that at the time of our meeting, I could make no other promises—than those I made—that’s all.
FRANÇOISE: Because you were in love with some one else, no doubt . . . And you still love her, is that it? Say it! Why don’t you say it?
JACQUES: That, Françoise, belongs in the domain of sentiment. I have never trespassed on yours, you must admit. Keep off mine.
FRANÇOISE: Do I know her?
JACQUES: Please.
FRANÇOISE: You won’t tell me?
JACQUES: There’s nothing to tell.
FRANÇOISE: Oh! I’ll find out . . . it can’t be very difficult . . . Who is she?
JACQUES: I assure you, Françoise, that you’re wasting your time.
FRANÇOISE: [Searching.] Let’s see; a woman that you were already in love with six months ago and who does not love you—
JACQUES: How do you know that she doesn’t love me?
FRANÇOISE: That’s evident. Else why should you have turned, elsewhere for distraction. That’s really all I’ve been to you—a distraction!
JACQUES: You’re mistaken, Françoise.
FRANÇOISE: You’re very kind, but don’t bother to protest further . . . I know who she is.
JACQUES: Ah?
FRANÇOISE: The Barentier girl?
JACQUES: Now you have it!
FRANÇOISE: It’s not she!
JACQUES: Yes, yes, let’s say it is!
FRANÇOISE: Great heavens! You’re annoying!
JACQUES: Françoise, please, let’s change the subject.
[GEORGES enters.] Pardon me . . . [To GEORGES.] Well?
GEORGES: I delivered the letter.
JACQUES: Did you see the gentleman?
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur. He didn’t write an answer but he asked to say that he was coming here to see you.
JACQUES: Really? When?
GEORGES: Now, monsieur.
JACQUES: What, you mean right away?
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur. He asked if you were at home. I said I thought you were. Then he said he was coming.
JACQUES: [After a pause.] All right . . . when he rings, ask him to go into the salon.
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur. [Exits.]
FRANÇOISE: Are you expecting some one?
JACQUES: Yes. I hope you’ll forgive me, Françoise. It’s a man whom I must see about a business matter—a rather important one—concerning my interests in Morocco.
FRANÇOISE: Why, yes, of course.
JACQUES: I wasn’t expecting him. Not to-day at least, otherwise—
FRANÇOISE: It doesn’t matter at all. [Goes to divan, gets hat and things.] As a matter of fact, there was very little left for us to say to each other—wasn’t there? [Pulls hat on.]
JACQUES: But—I don’t know, Françoise.
FRANÇOISE: You see, Jacques, I’ve only just realized that for the past six months it’s I who have given a bit too much both the questions and the answers. So now, I think there’s been enough of it and the best thing we can do is put a period at the end of our page. [He helps her on with her coat.] Don’t you think so too?
JACQUES: Just as you please.
FRANÇOISE: Ah! Well—
JACQUES: What?
FRANÇOISE: Oh, nothing: I feared you might have made some protest—merely as a matter of form. But I see that you’ve bravely made up your mind—and don’t even regard it worth while to protest. Splendid! Let me congratulate you on your resignation—[Pause.] What are you thinking?
JACQUES: [Whose mind is on other things.] Why—of you and what you’ve just said...
FRANÇOISE: No, you weren’t.
JACQUES: I’m sorry, Françoise. As a matter of fact I was worrying a bit about this coming interview. Do forgive me. Can’t we meet again some time soon—perhaps to-morrow?
FRANÇOISE: What for?
JACQUES: I’d like to explain—to attempt to make my position clear.
FRANÇOISE: I assure you, my dear, that I’ve understood you perfectly! [She cries a little but controls herself quickly.]
JACQUES: [Going toward her.] Françoise—
FRANÇOISE: Pay no attention to me!—There, it’s over. And now let’s say good-by to each other sweetly like the two good friends that we are. I shall miss you, Jacques, dear!
JACQUES: Come, Françoise—
FRANÇOISE: Yes, I will. Oh, it’s not your fault—you’re the sort of man one misses. After all, we have some rather pleasant memories to look back upon, haven’t we?
JACQUES: Yes, dear...delightful memories.
FRANÇOISE: You see, Jacques, when a woman promises to love you, you mustn’t always believe her. But when a woman promises not to, well, then you mustn’t, believe her either.
JACQUES: My dear Françoise! ...
FRANÇOISE: Come, we mustn’t weaken now!
JACQUES: But at least, you’ll let me write, won’t you?
FRANÇOISE: Do! Write me a letter filled with sweetly melancholy thoughts on the way all things come to an end, and send it by the florist with a few of those lovely carnations that I like. I’ll wait until they’re quite faded before trying to put you out of my thoughts. Good-by. [She gives him her hand. He kisses it. The bell is heard. He drops her hand and goes up to the door. She follows.]
JACQUES: Wait a moment, won’t you? [GEORGES enters. To GEORGES.] Is it the gentleman?
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur.
JACQUES: Very well.
FRANÇOISE: [Moved.] Don’t forget the carnations. [He goes out with her. In a moment he reenters and goes to the door of the salon and opens it.]
JACQUES: [Talking off.] Would you mind coming in here, monsieur? [JACQUES moves a little away from door. D’AIGUINES enters past him and turns to JACQUES with outstretched hand.]
D’AIGUINES: How are you, old boy?
JACQUES: Why, it’s—
D’AIGUINES: Of course it is! Didn’t you know you were writing to me?
JACQUES: Why, no, otherwise—
D’AIGUINES: Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so formal, I hope. But didn’t my name mean anything to you?
JACQUES: Of course. But I was led to believe that the d’Aiguines I had to deal with was somewhat older.
D’AIGUINES: Somewhat older? Why?
JACQUES: Well, it doesn’t matter. I remember you had some cousins. I thought perhaps it might be one of them.
D’AIGUINES: Ah? ...But what’s the reason for—
JACQUES: I’ll tell you. [Pause.] Do sit down!
D’AIGUINES: [Puts hat and glove, on desk.] You’re looking at me? ... You find I’ve changed, eh?. . .I’m sure you’d hardly have recognized me?
JACQUES: Yes. . . I would have.
D’AIGUINES: Good Lord, it’s something like twenty years since we’ve seen each other. Not since the days when we wore our trousers out sitting on the same bench at school. Twenty years leave their mark! On some people at least. . . But you’ve hardly changed. I’m very glad to see you again, old chap.
JACQUES: Thanks.
D’AIGUINES: It’s strange we shouldn’t have met. Of course I haven’t been in France much. What have you been doing? Weren’t you in Morocco for a time?
JACQUES: Yes.
D’AIGUINES: Who was it told me so? [A pause.]. . . Ah, yes, I remember; it was Sicard—you remember him—fat Sicard? I met him one day in Madrid. We were staying at the same hotel. He had just returned from Africa, I think, and had seen you there.
JACQUES: Yes.
D’AIGUINES: And now you’re living here altogether?
JACQUES: Yes.
D’AIGUINES: Damn funny thing, life. You really didn’t know that the d’Aiguines you were writing to for an appointment was I?
JACQUES: No.
D’AIGUINES: Well, the minute I saw your signature I didn’t hesitate. That’s why I came here right away. If Jacques Virieu wanted to see me I certainly couldn’t keep him waiting!
JACQUES: [Pause.] Is that the only reason you came here right away?
D’AIGUINES: [Surprised.] Good Lord! Since I haven’t the least idea what you have to say to me—
JACQUES: You haven’t the least idea?
D’AIGUINES: Why, of course not—no.
JACQUES: Ah. . .?
D’AIGUINES: Well, look here, you arouse my curiosity! Upon my word, you sit there looking like a judge! Come, what’s it all about?
JACQUES: Whom is it all about, might be better.
D’AIGUINES: Whom? ... All right, if you prefer it. Well, then, whom is it all about?
JACQUES: [Pause.] About Irene de Montcel.
D’AIGUINES: [Amazed and annoyed.] Irene de Montcel?
JACQUES: Yes. [Pause] You seem to begin to understand!
D’AIGUINES: No. What can you have to say to me about Mademoiselle de Montcel?
JACQUES: You can’t guess?
D’AIGUINES: No, I can’t!
JACQUES: I’m a distant cousin of hers. But what’s more important is that I’ve been a friend of hers for a long time. One of her best friends—I might even say her best friend, if you wish.
D’AIGUINES: Well?
JACQUES: You knew that, didn’t you?
D’AIGUINES: I didn’t even know you were acquainted.
JACQUES: Have you never heard her speak of me?
D’AIGUINES: Never.
JACQUES: She hasn’t even spoken of the—role that some one was playing for her at the present time?
D’AIGUINES: What rôle?
JACQUES: Don’t you know that some one is pretending to Irene’s father to be engaged to her, or something of the sort?
D’AIGUINES: Engaged to her?
JACQUES: To ward off her father’s suspicions; and to permit her to remain in Paris, yes.
D’AIGUINES: [Pause.] She asked you to do that?
JACQUES: Yes.
D’AIGUINES: Did you do it?
JACQUES: Yes. [Pause.] You knew nothing about all about that?
D’AIGUINES: I? Why, of course, I didn’t!
JACQUES: Really! I had somehow imagined that you would have known about it.
D’AIGUINES: What are you driving at?
JACQUES: I merely wanted to let you know by what right I say what I shall have to say to you about her.
D’AIGUINES: That’s all very well—but I’ve no right to listen to what you may have to say about the young lady. [Rises.]
JACQUES: Sit down, please.
D’AIGUINES: [Disturbed.] What for? I tell you again that it’s something which doesn’t concern me.
JACQUES: Steady! Otherwise, I’ll be forced to think its something which concerns you deeply.
D’AIGUINES: [Feelingly.] What do you mean?
JACQUES: I mean that a suspicion I had before your arrival has become a conviction in the last five minutes.
D’AIGUINES: All right—keep your suspicions to yourself, and allow me to leave?
JACQUES: [Standing between the door and D’AIGUINES.] I swear that you’ll listen to me!
D’AIGUINES: Good God! Are you crazy?
JACQUES: No.
D’AIGUINES: You insist upon my listening to you?
JACQUES: [Vehemently.] Yes!
D’AIGUINES: You’re wrong, I tell you!
JACQUES: We’ll see as to that.
D’AIGUINES: Very well, I’ve warned you. Do as you like...
JACQUES: I shan’t take long, don’t worry. If—contrary to what I think—what I have to say doesn’t apply to you, at least you’ll know to whom it should be repeated. When a man occupies in a girl’s life the place which the person I’m referring to occupies in Irene’s life—when he makes her do or lets her do what she has done in order not to be separated from him—he has no valid excuse, none, do you hear, for not marrying her. That is to say, if he’s free. If he isn’t, then he must take steps to become so, at no matter what cost and at the earliest possible moment. Now you have it.
D’AIGUINES: [Pause.] Is that all?
JACQUES: Well, just about. For I shouldn’t like to think that the person in question were a man without honor. If that were the case then the duty of a friend is clear; to warn Montcel to protect his daughter. But I hope it won’t be necessary to go to that extreme.
D’AIGUINES: Have you quite finished this time?
JACQUES: Yes.
D’AIGUINES: Then, unless I’m crazy I must conclude that you believe me to be Mademoiselle de Montcel’s lover or something of the sort. That’s it, isn’t it?
JACQUES: That is the most likely supposition, yes...
D’AIGUINES: [Earnestly.] Well, then look at me and despite the high strung condition you seem to be in, try to see things clearly. I give you my word of honor that you’re mistaken. I am not and never have been anything but an acquaintance of hers, do you hear...not even a friend. You can believe me or not, that’s your affair. That’s all I’ve got to say. And please understand that if I’ve taken the trouble of replying to you at all instead of treating you like a lunatic and leaving here without a word, it’s solely because of our old friendship.
JACQUES: [Impressed by D’AIGUINES’ truthful attitude, but despairing.] Then ... who is it?
D’AIGUINES: How should I know?... Has she a lover?
JACQUES Yes.
D’AIGUINES: Did she tell you so?
JACQUES: She let me believe it—which amounts to the same thing.
D’AIGUINES: Not always. You may be too hasty in drawing conclusions.
JACQUES: Well, it’s the only possible explanation. If it weren’t true, she’d have said so. She couldn’t have doubted for a moment that I was convinced of it. I ...
D’AIGUINES: [Pause] Well, in any case, I’m sorry, but I can give you no information. And if you’ve nothing more to say ...
JACQUES: You’re not going?
D’AIGUINES: I must. I came as soon as I got your note but I’m leaving Paris in a few days and I’ve a great deal to do.
JACQUES: Don’t go, I beg you! You’re the only one who can help me find this man and I must find him.
D’AIGUINES: But since I know nothing—
JACQUES: That’s not possible! You must have some idea, some suspicion. Seeing her constantly ... knowing the sort of life she leads ... whom she sees ...
D’AIGUINES: But you’re wrong. I don’t see her constantly. Once in a while she goes out with us—but I’ve much less in common with her than you seem to think—
JACQUES: How can that be? You’re almost the only people she ever sees—she spends all her time at your house. You can’t help knowing something!
D’AIGUINES: [Coldly, not looking at JACQUES.] I know nothing.
JACQUES: I don’t believe you!
D’AIGUINES: See here! That’s quite enough—
JACQUES: I believed you a moment ago, believed you without proof, when you said you were not her lover. You were telling the truth then. Now, you’re not, you’re lying. You’re lying so as not to betray the secret of some one who is probably your friend. That’s it, isn’t it?
D’AIGUINES: I know nothing.
JACQUES: Listen: just tell me that he’s a decent chap and that he’ll marry her—and I’ll ask you nothing more.
D’AIGUINES: I have nothing to say. I know nothing.
JACQUES: But don’t you understand that this poor girl must be saved, that she can’t be allowed to go more deeply every day into an affair that is ruining her!... And if it were only that! She has already begun to suffer. What’s going on?. . . Has she felt that he wants to be rid of her? I don’t know. But what I do know is that she spends her time locked in her room, sobbing. That’s what she has come to!
D’AIGUINES: Oh! ... [Gesture.]
JACQUES: That doesn’t worry you, eh? Well it does me! I’d give my life, do you hear, my life, to make her happy.
D’AIGUINES: [Looks at him in surprise.] You mean to say you love her?
JACQUES: I am her friend.
D’AIGUINES: Answer me. One doesn’t do what you have done out of mere friendship—nor go through with a thing like this pretended engagement. You love her?
JACQUES: Very well, then, I do love her. I’ve loved her for ten years, and I’ll never love anyone else. What of it?
D’AIGUINES: You love her? Is that true?
JACQUES: Yes!
D’AIGUINES: Then for Christ’s sake, get away from here! Get away! It doesn’t matter where—as far as you and stay away as long as you can! Don’t come back until you’re cured! That’s all I can say!
JACQUES: What do you mean?
D’AIGUINES: I’m giving you some advice, good advice, that’s all.
JACQUES: You’re going to explain to me exactly what you mean! Aren’t you?
D’AIGUINES: [With hesitation.] Why—there’s nothing to explain—You love this young woman and from what you tell me I gather she loves some one else. That being the case, the best thing to do is clear out. Don’t you agree with me?
JACQUES: Clear out and leave her in the hands of some rotter, probably—some rotter who wanted her and so made her believe he’d marry her.
D’AIGUlNES: Is she really so simple as that?
JACQUES: A woman is always that the first time she’s in love. This is her first experience, I have reasons to know that. If she had loved any one before this, I’d probably have been the man. I adored her and until last year I lived in the hope that some day she’d be my wife. And she would have been, do you hear, if this other man hadn’t appeared. I didn’t fight against it, there was no use. But since he’s been the means of making me unhappy, at least I want him to be the means of making her happy. To do that I must find him.
D’AIGUlNES: You can do nothing for her.
JACQUES: How do you know?
D’AIGUINES: No one can do anything for her.
JACQUES: Why? [D’AIGUINES gestures, but remains silent.] Ah! You made a slip there! You’re not going to keep on pretending that you don’t know how things are! You can’t keep silent any longer!
D’AIGUlNES: Leave her alone! Don’t meddle in this, believe me! And don’t ask me anything more!
JACQUES: Look here, you don’t suppose I’m going to be satisfied with vague warnings that can have only one effect: making me more anxious than ever! I’m not asking for advice, I’m demanding a name!
D’AIGUINES: [Abruptly.] The name of her lover? She has no lover! Now, are you satisfied?
JACQUES: What?
D’AIGUINES: It might be better for her if she had one!
JACQUES: I don’t understand.
D’AIGUINES: A woman can free herself from a lover—even if he’s the worst scoundrel living. She can get over it. Whereas in her case—
JACQUES: In her case, what? Finish!
D’AIGUINES: Hers is quite another kind of bondage ... And that kind—[Gesture.]
JACQUES: Another kind of bondage?
D’AIGUINES: Yes. It is not only a man who may be dangerous to a woman... In some cases it can be another woman.
JACQUES: Another woman?
D’AIGUINES: Yes.
JACQUES: What are you talking about? You mean to say it’s on account of a woman that Irene refused to go with her father to Rome?
D’AIGUINES: Yes.
JACQUES: It’s on account of a woman that she spends her time crying?
D’AIGUINES: Yes.
JACQUES: What kind of story is this?
D’AIGUINES: The kind of story that often happens—regardless of what men think. The kind of story that people don’t believe for the most part, or which makes them smile, half amused and half indulgent.
JACQUES: But it’s impossible! Irene is much too well balanced...
D’AIGUINES: What does that prove?
JACQUES: Are you positive of this?
D’AIGUINES: Yes.
JACQUES: Do you—know this woman?
D’AIGUINES: Yes. [Looks at JACQUES quickly, and sees that the latter is not observing him. A great sadness crosses his face.] I know her.
JACQUES: [After a moment.] I am dumbfounded—
D’AIGUINES: And a little relieved . . . aren’t you?
JACQUES: Well, good Lord! After what I had feared! . . .
D’AIGUINES: So you’d prefer—? [Pause.] Well, you’re wrong to prefer it!
JACQUES: You’d rather she had a lover?
D’AIGUINES: In your place? Yes! A hundred, a thousand times rather!
JACQUES: Are you mad?
D’AIGUINES: It’s you who are mad. If she had a lover I’d say to you: Patience, my boy, patience and courage. Your cause isn’t lost. No man lasts forever in a woman’s life. You love her and she’ll come back to you if you know how to wait . . . But in this case I say: Don’t wait! There’s no use. She’ll never return—and if ever your paths should cross again fly from her, fly from her... do you hear? Otherwise you are lost! Otherwise you’ll spend your existence pursuing a phantom which you can never overtake. One can never overtake them! They are shadows. They must be left to dwell alone among themselves in the kingdom of shadows! Don’t go near them . . . they’re a menace! Above all, never, try to be anything to them, no matter how little—that’s where the danger lies. For, after all, they have some need of us in their lives . . . it isn’t always easy for a woman to get along. So if a man offers to help her, to share with her what he has, and to give her his name, naturally she accepts. What difference can it make to her? So long as he doesn’t exact love, she’s not concerned about the rest. Only, can you imagine the existence of a man if he has the misfortune to love—to adore a shadow near whom he lives? Tell me, can you imagine what that’s like? Take my word for it, old man, it’s a rotten life! One’s used up quickly by that game. One gets old in no time—and at thirty-five, look for yourself, one’s hair is gray!
JACQUES: Do you mean—?
D’AIGUINES: Yes. And I hope you’ll profit by my example. Understand this: they are not for us. They must be shunned, left alone. Don’t make my mistake. Don’t say, as I said in a situation almost like yours, don’t say: “Oh, it’s nothing but a sort of ardent friendship—an affectionate intimacy . . . nothing very serious . . . we know all about that sort of thing!” No! We don’t know anything about it! We can’t begin to know what it is. It’s mysterious—terrible! Friendship, yes—that’s the mask. Under cover of friendship a woman can enter any household, whenever and however she pleases—at any hour of the day—she can poison and pillage everything before the man whose home she destroys is even aware of what’s happening to him. When finally he realizes things it’s too late—he is alone! Alone in the face of a secret alliance of two beings who understand one another because they’re alike, because they’re of the same sex, because they’re of a different planet than he, the stranger, the enemy! Ah! If a man tries to steal your woman you can defend yourself, you can fight him on even terms, you can smash his face in. But in this case—there’s nothing to be done—but get out while you still have strength to do it! And that’s what you’ve got to do!
JACQUES: . . . Why don’t you get out yourself?
D’AIGUINES: Oh, with me it’s different. I can’t leave her now. We’ve been married eight years. Where would she go? . . . Besides it’s too late. I couldn’t live without her any more. What can I do—I love her? . . . [Pause.] You’ve never seen her? [JACQUES shakes his head.] You’d understand better if you knew her. She has all the feminine allurements, every one. As soon as one is near her, one feels—how shall I say it—a sort of deep charm. Not only I feel it. Every one feels it. But I more than the rest because I live near her. I really believe she is the most harmonious being that has ever breathed . . . Sometimes when I’m away from her, I have the strength to hate her for all the harm she has done me . . . but, with her, I don’t struggle. I look at her . . . I listen to her . . . I worship her. You see?
JACQUES: [Pursuing an idea.] Tell me . . . why is Irene suffering?
D’AIGUINES: I don’t know. [Rises.] You don’t suppose I’m confided in, do you? She is suffering probably, as the weak always do, struggling with a stronger nature until they give in.
JACQUES: You think Irene is weak?
D’AIGUINES: Compared to the other? Oh, yes. [Pause.] She is probably still struggling.
JACQUES: Ah! [Pause.] So that’s why she is unhappy? [Rises.]
D’AIGUINES: For that reason—or some other. She has many to choose from.
JACQUES: You mean—?
D’AIGUINES: Why shouldn’t she suffer? I suffer, don’t I?
JACQUES: That’s not the same thing.
D’AIGUINES: You think so, do you? Well, on the contrary, I believe it’s very much the same thing. There’s only one way to love, you see, and one way to suffer. It’s the same formula for everybody—and in that respect she and I have been in the same boat for some time. Only she hasn’t got used to it yet—and I have.
JACQUES: I don’t quite follow you.
D’AIGUINES: Haven’t you heard any mention of a cruise?
JACQUES: A cruise?
D’AIGUINES: Yes. In the Mediterranean . . . on a yacht, an American yacht?
JACQUES: No. [Pause.] Is she to be one of the party?
D’AIGUINES: That’s why I’m asking if she spoke of it.
JACQUES: She never speaks to me of anything.
D’AIGUINES: In her place—I’d refuse to go.
JACQUES: You would?
D’AIGUINES: I doubt that she’ll be able to refuse. However—that’s her affair. What matters most is you. What are you going to do? Will you take my advice and go away for a while?
JACQUES: I don’t know yet. I’ll think it over.
D’AIGUINES: Don’t wait, Jacques. Believe me.
JACQUES: It’s not as dangerous for me as you think. I almost never see her.
D’AIGUINES: What difference does that make? When she needs you, she knows where to find you—you’ve seen that for yourself. That is how one can get caught, even after one has been warned. Remember what I’m telling you.
JACQUES: But where can I go?
D’AIGUINES: Anywhere—so long as it’s far away. [Pause.] Have you still got your business interests in Morocco?
JACQUES: Yes, but—
D’AIGUINES: Then go back there for a while. At that distance she won’t be able to turn to you so easily.
JACQUES: If you knew her as well as I do, you’d realize that, you’re needlessly alarmed. She turned to me for help in a moment of frenzy. But she’s much too proud to do so again. Besides, I don’t see how I could help her any more.
D’AIGUINES: How can you tell? [Pause.] If you don’t want to go away, then find a woman that is attractive to you, a real woman. See if she can’t make you forget the other one.
JACQUES: I’ve already tried that.
D’AIGUINES: And it didn’t succeed? [JACQUES shakes his head.] You see my fears were not so exaggerated as you thought. There is nothing for you to do but go away—and without a moment’s delay. Now it’s up to you. [Picks up his hat and gloves and offers JACQUES his hand. A bell is heard.] Are you expecting some one?
JACQUES: No.
D’AIGUINES: Well, anyhow, I must be off—good-by, Jacques. [They shake hands.]
JACQUES: Thanks . . .
D’AIGUINES: Oh! [Gesture.] If only I could have convinced you! [GEORGES enters.]
JACQUES: What is it?
GEORGES: Mademoiselle de Montcel would like to know if you can see her.
JACQUES: What!
GEORGES: And I said that I would see if you were in, monsieur.
JACQUES: [Glances at D’AIGUINES.] Ask her to wait in the salon, then close the door that gives into the hall.
GEORGES: Very good, monsieur.
JACQUES: It’s Mademoiselle Irene?
GEORGES: Yes, monsieur.
JACQUES: Oh! Show Monsieur d’Aiguines out when he leaves. [GEORGES exits.] Well! This is an unexpected visit.
D’AIGUINES: Tell me—you’ve no intention, I hope, of repeating a word of what we’ve said to Mademoiselle de Montcel, have you?
JACQUES: Do you suppose she’d ever forgive me for knowing?
D’AIGUINES: Right! And now—good luck, old man. Remember—she can never belong to you no matter how you try. They’re not for us. [He exits and JACQUES stands a moment in the doorway, then crosses to salon door and opens it.] Come in!
IRENE: [Entering.] You’re sure I’m not disturbing you? [Closes door.]
JACQUES: Very sure.
IRENE: You’d tell me if I were, wouldn’t you?
JACQUES: I’d tell you.
IRENE: Then may I stay? It won’t bother you?
JACQUES: It won’t bother me.
IRENE: [She sits on the sofa.] Were you surprised when you heard it was I?
JACQUES: [Sitting at his desk and lighting the lamp.] A little, yes.
IRENE: You wondered what I had come here for, didn’t you?
JACQUES: I thought that no doubt there was something you wanted to talk to me about.
IRENE: There is.
JACQUES: Well, I’m listening.
IRENE: [Smiling.] Oh, please not like that. Don’t speak to me like a lawyer to his client. Be kind, affectionate! . . . Do change that severe look!
JACQUES: Why do you say I have a severe look?
IRENE: You always have a severe look, nowadays.
JACQUES: You’re mistaken—
IRENE: Be sweet, Jacques, won’t you? Like old times! I’m terribly in need of your sympathy.
JACQUES: Really?
IRENE: Why do you say really like that?
JACQUES: For no reason. Go on, continue.
IRENE: Are you surprised I ask you to be kind . . . to be affectionate . . . to me?
JACQUES: I’ve stopped being surprised by you, my dear—
IRENE: Don’t be cruel! . . . I’ve given you the right to be, I don’t forget that! But just the same I hope you won’t be, do you mind? Not to-day, anyway. [She turns her face away to hide tears.]
JACQUES: [More gently.] What’s the matter?
IRENE: Nothing. Pay no attention. [Pause.] I want you to tell me something.
JACQUES: What?
IRENE: Since I asked you to—since you agreed to play this part to my father—have you no longer as much affection for me?
JACQUES: Why do you ask me that?
IRENE: Because I must know.
JACQUES: I have as much affection, only—
IRENE: Only?
JACQUES: It is no longer the same affection. I used to admire you. Now, I pity you.
IRENE: [Pensive, without looking at him.] And you despise me?
JACQUES: I pity you.
IRENE: You’re right... I am to be pitied. But I can still count on you as a friend, can’t I?
JACQUES: Yes.
IRENE: I need to believe that, to feel sure of it. You don’t know, Jacques, how much you mean to me.
JACQUES: As much as that? [Rises.]
IRENE: Please, no sarcasm. You say you pity me. Then prove it.
JACQUES: How?
IRENE: Oh! . . . By showing me a little tenderness and being a little lenient, that’s all.
JACQUES: Aren’t you happy?
IRENE: Happy?
JACQUES: Yes.
IRENE: There are times when I wish I were dead.
JACQUES: Well, that is a way out, but—
IRENE: You don’t believe me?
JACQUES: I hope you’re exaggerating—if one had to kill oneself every time he was unhappy—
IRENE: Oh! I’m not thinking of killing myself. It takes courage to die like that. And I haven’t even any courage left . . . I have nothing left . . .
JACQUES: Yet, you got what you wanted. You had to stay in Paris at any cost. Well, here you are—Oh, talking of that, I meant to tell you that I must write to your father.
IRENE: To father?
JACQUES: Yes. It was understood that I was to let him know as soon as possible what my intentions were and I promised to do it. He’s already been gone a month and I haven’t written yet . . . It’s time I did.
IRENE: Must you?
JACQUES: I’ll tell him that the business matters that were worrying me at the time of his departure are now in such bad shape that I’m in no position to make plans for the future—Does that seem all right to you?
IRENE: Just as you wish.
JACQUES: I’ll add that I am going to Morocco to attend directly to my interests there.
IRENE: [With great alarm.] But it isn’t true, is it—you’re not going away?
JACQUES: Yes, probably.
IRENE: But why? Is it really because of business matters?
JACQUES: No.
IRENE: Well, then? . . . Oh! You’re not going alone?
JACQUES: What do you mean, not alone?
IRENE: Is some one going with you?
JACQUES: No, nobody.
IRENE: Then why must you go?
JACQUES: I need a change. This climate’s not agreeing with me. I should have gone long ago—a year ago when you came back from Italy. Perhaps I’d have been better by now.
IRENE: It’s because of me that you’re going.
JACQUES: Good Lord!
IRENE: Is it true?
JACQUES: Don’t you think it’s about time that I considered my own peace of mind a little? After all I can’t spend my life loving you and beginning to suffer all over again each time I see you.
IRENE: Then you still love me, Jacques? Is it true?
JACQUES: Does that surprise you?
IRENE: After what you must have believed of me lately, I was certain that was over... that you didn’t love me any more. I felt it,—but I hoped it wasn’t true.
JACQUES: You hoped it wasn’t true?
IRENE: Yes.
JACQUES: You hoped that I still loved you?
IRENE: Yes.
JACQUES: [Pause.] I can’t understand you.
IRENE: [Looking away from him.] Don’t go away, Jacques.
JACQUES: What do you say?
IRENE: Don’t go away. [JACQUES looks at her, stupefied.]
JACQUES: Ah, yes! You’re afraid your father’ll send for you when he receives my letter and learns I’m no longer here, eh? Well, I’m sorry, but this time you’ll have to manage without me. You can do what you like and how you like, but I shall write to your father to-night.
IRENE: [Shrugging her shoulders.] Write all you want to. I don’t care!
JACQUES: [Sarcastically.] Really!
IRENE: Absolutely, I swear to you!
JACQUES: [Puzzled.] Then why don’t you want me to go away?
IRENE: Oh! . . . for no reason at all. [She rises.]
JACQUES: Sit down again and answer me.
IRENE: It’s no use. Go, go away—since you’re in such a hurry to forget me! Go!
JACQUES: Really, Irene, what is this game you’re playing now?
IRENE: Please forgive me. I don’t know what I’m saying any more. Oh, Jacques, I’m so miserable! [She falls into a chair and cries.]
JACQUES: [Touched, going to her.] What’s the matter?
IRENE: [Clinging to him.] You mustn’t leave me. I’m so alone, so wretched! Jacques! Only you can save me!
JACQUES: But what do you want me to do?
IRENE: Protect me! Shield me!
JACQUES: Shield you?
IRENE: Yes.
JACQUES: I assure you, Irene, I’m doing my best to understand you, but really—
IRENE: I know, I must seem crazy. Well, I am crazy! You have got to treat me like a crazy person—a sick person—and take care of me, that’s all. If you don’t come to my rescue right away—it will be too late!
JACQUES: Are you in danger of something?
IRENE: Yes.
JACQUES: An imminent danger?
IRENE: Yes.
JACQUES: Can’t you tell me what it is?
IRENE: [After hesitating.] It’s about a cruise, my going away—and I mustn’t go. I don’t want to go—if I do, it’s all over. I’d be lost!
JACQUES: What is forcing you to go?
IRENE: Ah! I am afraid of myself.
JACQUES: Then why don’t you take a train to Rome with Gisele to join your father?
IRENE: I had thought of that . . . But at the last minute I wouldn’t go—I wouldn’t have the strength—
JACQUES: Yes, you would! I’ll help if you wish.
IRENE: [Shaking her head.] Or else I’d come back.
JACQUES: No!
IRENE: You see, there are times in which I can see clearly, such as now, when I am sane and free to use my own mind . . . But there are other times when I can’t, when I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s like—a prison to which I must return captive, despite myself. I‘m—I’m—
JACQUES: Fascinated?
IRENE: Yes! I need some one to watch me, to hold me back. Some one who has understood or guessed certain things—that I can’t talk about, that I can never tell!
JACQUES: Is that what you expect of me? How can I restrain you from doing what you want to do? Have I the least influence over you? Have you ever listened to my advice? Please remember that it was only a month ago you rejected it.
IRENE: It’s no longer the same.
JACQUES: What is no longer the same?
IRENE: Many things. I will listen to you now. I want to listen to you.
JACQUES: But you won’t be able to! You won’t be allowed to! What weapons have I to fight with? What can I add to what you yourself have said? You acknowledge that this cruise would be your ruin? What can I add to that? And then do you imagine for one moment that advice from me would hold you back during one of those hours of insensibility you speak of? [IRENE shakes head.] You see! . . . And surely you don’t expect me to hold you by force, do you? So, what can I do for you?
IRENE: Everything. You can save me.
JACQUES: How?
IRENE: You are the only one who can save me—
JACQUES: Why?
IRENE: Because you love me—
JACQUES: It’s for that very reason that I can do nothing. As soon as I saw you miserable, I’d be useless. You can’t take as your trained nurse a man who loves you!
IRENE: Not as a trained nurse—
JACQUES: Well, what then?
IRENE: [Looking at him.] Jacques—would you like me to give myself to you?
JACQUES: Irene!
IRENE: Would you?
JACQUES: Don’t!
IRENE: Jacques?
JACQUES: So that’s it. That’s what you’ve come to offer me?
IRENE: [Lowering head.] Yes.
JACQUES: My poor Irene.
IRENE: You don’t want me?
JACQUES: [Faces her.] But I love you! Don’t you understand what that means?
IRENE: Of course—
JACQUES: [Forcibly.] You offer me your body, your poor body as a pledge, is that it?You want to soil it with me so that you can tell this woman—
IRENE: [With a cry.] Jacques!
JACQUES: [Still moved.] Yes, I know! I’ve guessed it! What of it? I suppose you want to tell her that you’ve given yourself to a man, so that she’ll leave you alone? But as for me, me—it’s not your body I want. It’s you, all of you, don’t you see? Can you give me that—tell me? Can you give that to some one you don’t love? For, after all, you don’t love me, do you? You don’t love me?
IRENE: [With despair.] I want so much to love you. [She bends over and sobs, her head on his breast.]
JACQUES: [Distraught.] Poor child!
IRENE: [Through her tears.] You think that I don’t know it would mean my happiness? I know only too well that the place I really belong is here against your shoulder. Why won’t you let me stay here?
JACQUES: Oh! Irene—what you are asking is too terrible.
IRENE: Why?... Perhaps I would learn to love you?
JACQUES: Afterwards, you mean? No, my dear...
IRENE: But once you told me that I would.
JACQUES: Ah! Because at that time I thought that only your pride stood between us. I didn’t know then all that separates us!
IRENE: But when you will have cured me...
JACQUES: Do you really believe that I could?
IRENE: Yes, if you’re very kind, very indulgent, if you have a little patience.
JACQUES: But, you see I love you too much for that.
IRENE: Then... you refuse me?... Is that it, Jacques?... What is going to become of me!
JACQUES: What would become of me? I’ve been hurt enough as it is.
IRENE: But that’s over, I won’t hurt you any more. How could I hurt you when it will be you who have saved me?
JACQUES: That means nothing. You wouldn’t do it on purpose, naturally.
IRENE: Jacques, look at me. Look in my eyes. [Pause.] I will give you everything a man can expect from the woman he loves.
JACQUES: [Disturbed.] Irene! I have dreamed of that too long.
IRENE: Take me in your arms. I am yours, Jacques, all of me...
JACQUES: You don’t realize what you’re promising.
IRENE: YES, I do.
JACQUES: There is still time... you can still go.
IRENE: I am not afraid.
JACQUES: You really wish it? Are you sure that you do?
IRENE: Yes.
JACQUES: [Taking her in his arms.] Irene?... Is it true? [He starts to kiss her on the mouth. As IRENE beholds his face filled with longing, she makes an abrupt movement of aversion. He lets her go.] You see?
IRENE: No, no—forgive me! [This time it is she who offers her lips, to him. Then, her nerves giving way, she lets her head fall on his shoulder, struggles with herself a moment, and breaks into tears.]
JACQUES: [In despair] Irene!
IRENE: No, no!—Pay no attention !—It doesn’t mean anything... It’s all over! You will keep me with? Always?
JACQUES: I’ll try.
The CURTAIN falls