Pierre.

In the second place, he was everlastingly twitching his legs.

Julia.

And what else? What else?

Pierre.

Oh, he explained that you were at a Hungarian watering-place, that you were improving, and that you were expected home soon. (Julia bursts out laughing.) Yes, (gloomily) it's screamingly funny, isn't it.

Julia.

So I'm at a Hungarian watering-place! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Pierre.

But he looked at me so questioningly, so--so mournfully--why, it was really most annoying the way he looked at me.

Julia.

At a Hungarian watering-place!

Pierre.

And then, later, mamma said to him, "It's a dreadful pity your dear wife isn't here just now. She does so love the roses."

Julia.

And what did he say?

Pierre.

"Our roses are not thriving very well this year," said he.

Julia.

But his turnips!--They always thrive!--And then----?

Pierre.

Then a strange thing occurred that I can't help worrying about. Suddenly mamma said to him, "Something very peculiar is happening on our estate this year. Now I can see from where I sit that the whole place is one mass of roses. And yet, if at any time I ask for a few more than usual, there are none to be had!"

Julia.

Why, you must have been shaking in your boots! Did you do anything to betray us?

Pierre.

Oh, I think I know how to take care of myself!--But suddenly he grew absolutely rigid--as if--as if he had been reflecting. He acted like a man who sleeps with his eyes open. Mamma asked him a question three times, and he never answered a word!

Julia.

I say, did you come here to frighten me?

Pierre (bursting out).

What is your fear compared to what I had to stand! Compared to my biting, nauseous shame as I sat there opposite him?--I scorned the man inwardly, and yet I felt as if I ought to lick the dust on his boots. When mamma said to him, "You don't look very well, Herr Wittich--are you ill?"--her words were like the box on the ear that she gave me when, as a lad of fifteen, I got into mischief with the steward's daughter.--Why did you drag me into this loathsome business? I don't like it!--I won't stand it!--I like to feel straight! I want my hands clean!--I want to look down on the people that I meet!--I owe that to myself.

Julia.

Reproaches?--I'd like to know who has the guilty conscience in this case, you or I?

Pierre.

How long have you been concerned about your conscience?

Julia.

Pierre, you know I had never belonged to any other man--except him.

Pierre.

But you've showered sweet glances right and left. You've flirted with every man who would look at you--even the stable-boy wasn't beneath your notice!

Julia.

And he was better than you!--For he wanted nothing more than to follow me with his eyes. But you, Pierre, you were not so easily satisfied. No, the young Count was more exacting. Corrupt to the core--in spite of his twenty years----

Pierre (proudly).

I am not a bit corrupt. I am a dreamer. My twenty years excuse that!

Julia.

But your dreams are poisonous. You want a woman to be your mistress and yet be chaste--to keep the blush of maidenhood and yet be as passionate as yourself.--And what have you learned from your experience in the world? Nothing, except how to scent and track out the sins that lie hidden in one's inmost soul, the secret sins that one dares not admit to oneself.--And when the prey is in reach, then you fire away with your "rights of the modern woman," your "sovereignty of the freed individuality"--and whatever the rest of the phrases may be.--Ah! You knew better than I that we all have the Scarlet Woman's blood in our veins!--Blow away the halo--and the saint is gone!

Pierre.

It seems to me you found a great deal of pleasure in your sin!

Julia.

Yes--at least that's what one tells oneself--perhaps one feels it, too.--It depends--more in the evening than the morning--more in March than October.--But the dread, the horror of it, is always there.--The weight of such love is like the weight of one's own coffin-lid.--And you soon discovered that, Pierre.--Then you began softly, gently, to bind me to you with glances and caresses that were like chains of roses!--Yes, and that I become maddened by roses as cats by valerian, that, too, you soon found out.--Then--then you began to speak to me of the lover's pavilion--all covered with roses--where your ancestors spent happy, pastoral hours in wooing their loves--the pavilion that had been waiting so long for a new mistress. You spoke of adorning it with beautiful hangings--of filling it full of roses. Oh you, you Pierre, how well you understood!--Do have some black coffee made for me! If the gardener can't do it, make it yourself! Please, please!

Pierre.

But, I tell you, I have to go back to mamma.

Julia.

Nowadays, you always "have to go back to mamma." Shall I tell you something--a big secret? You are tired of me! You want to get rid of me--only you don't know how!

Pierre.

Your notions are offensive, my dear.

Julia.

Pierre, I know my fate. I know I am doomed to the gutter. But not yet! Don't leave me yet! Care for me a little while longer--so the fall won't be too sudden.--Let me stay here as long as the roses bloom--here, where he can't find me! Oh, if I leave this place I shall die of fear!--Nowhere else am I safe from those two great fists of his!--Pierre, Pierre, you don't know his fists--they're like two iron bolts!--You, too--beware of him!

Pierre (half to himself).

Why do you say that to me?

Julia.

He was always jealous of you. When you sent the hothouse roses in April, he became suspicious. Ever since then, he has continually had the notion of an admirer in his head. That was the danger-signal! Pierre, if he surmised--then you would be the first--and I would come afterward! Pierre, if you drive me to desperation,