Henriette.  You don’t need to be without a woman—­you?

Maurice.  Well, that’s the question.

Henriette.  Don’t you know that a man is irresistible in his hour of success and fame?

Maurice.  No, I don’t know, for I have had no experience of it.

Henriette.  You are a queer sort!  At this moment, when you are the most envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood.  Perhaps your conscience is troubling you because you have neglected that invitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at the milk shop?

Maurice.  Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, and even here I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, their well-grounded anger.  My comrades in distress had the right to demand my presence this evening.  The good Madame Catherine had a privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope was to spread over the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded.  And I have robbed them of their faith in me.  I can hear the vows they have been making:  “Maurice will come, for he is a good fellow; he doesn’t despise us, and he never fails to keep his word.”  Now I have made them forswear themselves.

(While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begun to play the finale of Beethoven’s Sonata in D-minor (Op. 31, No. 3).  The allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and at last passionately, violently, with complete abandon.)

Maurice.  Who can be playing at this time of the night?

Henriette.  Probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we.  But listen!  Your presentation of the case is not correct.  Remember that Adolphe promised to meet us here.  We waited for him, and he failed to keep his promise.  So that you are not to blame—­

Maurice.  You think so?  While you are speaking, I believe you, but when you stop, my conscience begins again.  What have you in that package?

Henriette.  Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to send up to the stage, but I had no chance to do so.  Let me give it to you now—­it is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. [She rises and crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him on the forehead] Hail to the victor!

Maurice.  Don’t!

Henriette. [Kneeling] Hail to the King!

Maurice. [Rising] No, now you scare me.

Henriette.  You timid man!  You of little faith who are afraid of fortune even!  Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned you into a dwarf?