MADAME NeRISSE. 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.

THeReSE. Oh, I hope that's true! I'm going to tell you some bad news.

For family reasons my G.o.dfather and G.o.dmother are going to leave Paris.

I shall stay here by myself, and I shall have to live by my pen.

MADAME NeRISSE. What an idea!

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

MADAME NeRISSE. What do you mean? A necessity? Monsieur Gueret--. But I mustn't be inquisitive.

THeReSE. 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 NeRISSE [_with less confidence_] Certainly.

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

MADAME NeRISSE. 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.

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

MADAME NeRISSE [_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.

THeReSE. I could write about very different subjects.

MADAME NeRISSE. I know you could, but it would be always the same signature.

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

MADAME NeRISSE. 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.

THeReSE. We'll try and manage it.

MADAME NeRISSE. We shall have to fight against some jealousy. The Directors have protegees. 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.

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

MADAME NeRISSE. 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.

THeReSE [_in consternation_] Enemies? How do you mean enemies?

MADAME NeRISSE. 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 compet.i.tion 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 s.p.a.ce in each number, and a lot of people have to live out of that.

THeReSE [_who has gone quite white_] Yes, I see.

MADAME NeRISSE [_who sees Therese's emotion_] How sorry I am for you! If you only knew how I feel for you! Don't look so unhappy. [_Therese makes a gesture of despair_] You're not an ordinary girl, Therese, 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?

THeReSE. Of course I do. But--

MADAME NeRISSE. We want to start a really smart, respectable woman's paper; of course without sacrificing our principles. Our t.i.tle by itself proves that. It's to be called _Woman Free_.

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

MADAME NeRISSE [_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 Nerisse. But I have no legal right to the name. That's why I've always found some reason for not introducing Monsieur Nerisse 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 Therese, 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.

THeReSE. 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 NeRISSE. And thank _you_ for the way you take this. Good-bye for the present.

_She goes out. Therese stands thinking for a moment, then Rene comes in. He is very much upset._

THeReSE. Rene!

RENe. Therese, it can't be true! It's not possible! It's not all over--our love?

THeReSE. We must be brave.

RENe. But I can't give you up.

THeReSE. I've lost every penny, Rene dear.

RENe. But I don't love you any the less for that. I can't give you up, Therese. I _can't_ give you up. I love you, I love you.

THeReSE. Oh, Rene, don't! I need all my courage to face this. Help me.

Don't you see, your people will never consent now.

RENe. My uncle told me so. But I'll see them. I'll persuade them. I'll explain to them.

THeReSE. You know very well they never really liked me, and that they'll be glad of this opportunity of breaking it off.

RENe. I don't know what to do. But I _cannot_ give you up. What would become of me without you? You're everything to me, everything. And suddenly--because of this dreadful thing--I must give up my whole life's happiness.

THeReSE. Your people are quite right, Rene.

RENe. And you, _you_ say that!

_He hides his face in his hands. A silence._

THeReSE [_gently removing his hands_] Look at me, Rene. You're crying.

Oh, my dear love!

RENe [_taking her in his arms_] I love you, I love you!

THeReSE. And I love you. Oh, please don't cry any more! [_She kisses him_] Rene, dear, don't cry any more! You break my heart. I can't bear it, I'm forgetting all I ought to say to you. [_Breaking down_] Oh, how dreadful this is! [_They cry together. Then she draws herself away from him, saying_] This is madness.