class="sc">Pierre.

Yes, yes--anything, for all I care! But go! Leave my property! Insult me, spit on me,--but go!

Julia.

And what then? What then?

Pierre.

Can't you write to him? Tell him that you have come back from your little journey--that you have reconsidered--that you can't live without him. Tell him to forget--and all shall be as it was before.--Now, wouldn't that be splendid?

Julia.

Now when he suspects?--When he can follow me, step by step, here to this pavilion and back again? (Contemptuously.) Splendid!

Pierre.

Then try something else!--Oh, now I have it! Now I have it!

Julia.

Speak, Pierre, for God's sake, speak! I'll love you as--! Speak! Speak!

Pierre.

You know him. His heart is soft?

Julia.

Yes, except when he's in a rage, then----

Pierre.

And you are sure that he loves you deeply?

Julia.

If he didn't love me so much, what need we fear?

Pierre.

Good! Well then, take a carriage at the station and drive home; throw yourself at his feet and tell him everything. Tell him, for all I care, that you hate me--that you loathe me--I don't mind--grovel before him until he raises you. And then all will be well!

Julia.

Ah, if it were possible!--It would be deliverance--it would be heaven! I should be safe once more--a human being!--I should see the sun again, instead of these streaks of light!--I should breathe the fresh air, instead of this musty odour of dead roses!--I shouldn't have to sink down, down into the filth!--I shouldn't have to be a bad woman--even if I am one!--There would be a respectable divorce--or perhaps merely a separation. For, I no longer dare hope to live with him as his wife, even if I were satisfied to be no better than his dog for the rest of my days!--Ah, but it cannot be! It cannot be! You don't know him. You don't know what he's like when the veins stand out on his forehead!--He would kill me!--Rather than that--kill me yourself!--Here--now--this moment!--Get your duelling pistols. Oh no! There--there--there are plenty of weapons! (She pulls at the weapons on the wall, several of which fall clattering upon the floor.) Swords--daggers--here! (Throws an armful on the chaise-longue.) They are rusty--but that doesn't matter.--Take one! Stab me first--then--do as you please!--Live if you can--do!--live as happily as you can! Your life is in your hands.

Pierre.

Yes--I dare say. Live!--But how? Where? (Sobs chokingly.)

Julia.

Come, then--we'll die together--together! (They sink into each other's arms and remain motionless in mute despair. After a time, Julia raises her head cautiously and looks about her.) Pierre!

Pierre (troubled).

Well?

Julia.

Has it occurred to you? Perhaps it isn't so, after all!

Pierre.

What do you mean?

Julia.

Perhaps we've just been talking ourselves into this notion, little by little--think so?

Pierre.

You mean that he really wanted to do nothing but--look at the pavilion?

Julia.

Well, it's possible, you know.

Pierre.

Yes--at least nothing very unusual occurred.

Julia.

But your naughty, naughty conscience came and asserted itself. Ha! Ha! What a silly little boy it is! A downright stupid little boy!

Pierre.

My imagination was always rather easily aroused. I----

Julia (laughing without restraint).

Such a stupid boy!--Pierre, let's make some coffee--for a change, eh?

Pierre.

But you know--I have to----

Julia.

Dear me, mamma has had her tea long ago. Tell her you sat down in the shade--and fell asleep--anything! It's growing a bit shady here now. See there! The streaks of light have gone. (Indicates a corner of the room in which the streaks of light have just grown dim.) Ah! but how hot it is! (Tears her dress open at the throat, breathing heavily.) Will you bring me the coffee-pot, like a good boy?

Pierre (listlessly).

Oh, well--all right. (Carries the coffee-pot to the table.)

Julia.

Pierre, you--you couldn't open the small door just a tiny bit? No one would look into the shrubbery.

Pierre.

Well, out there in the shrubbery, it's even hotter than in here.

Julia.

Oh, just try it--won't you?

Pierre.

Well, you'll see! (Opens the door at the left.)

Julia.

Whew! It's like a blast from a furnace! And that disgusting odour--a mixture of perspiration and bad perfume--ugh!

Pierre.

That's from the roses of our by-gone days--they lie out there in great heaps.

Julia.

Close the door! Hurry--close it!

Pierre (does so).

I told you how it would be!

Julia.

Well, perhaps you could adjust the shutters at the large door so that we'd get more fresh air in here.

Pierre.

Even that would be dangerous. If some one happened to be looking this way and saw the movement----

Julia (going to the door).

One has to do it slowly, ve-ry slow-ly-- (She starts, uttering a low cry of fear, and retreats to the foreground, her arms outstretched as if she were warding off a ghost.)

Pierre.

What's the matter?

Julia.

Sh! Sh! (Approaches him cautiously, then softly.) There's a man--out