Maurice.  A dwarf?  Yes, you are right.  I am not working up in the clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge my weapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain.  You think that my modesty shrinks before the victor’s wreath.  On the contrary, I despise it:  it is not enough for me.  You think I am afraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits over there and keeps watch on my feelings—­the strength of which you don’t suspect.  Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glass off the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person—­you absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any.  You stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself already beaten.  As I crush this glass under my foot, so I will crush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no longer yours.

Henriette.  Good!  That’s the way!  Well spoken, my hero!

Maurice.  Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful helper, on your altar, Astarte!  Are you satisfied?

Henriette.  Astarte is a pretty name, and I’ll keep it—­I think you love me, Maurice.

Maurice.  Of course I do—­Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man’s courage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where do you lead me?  I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when I heard them speak of you.  And when I saw you in the doorway, your soul poured itself into mine.  And when you left, I could still feel your presence in my arms.  I wanted to flee from you, but something held me back, and this evening we have been driven together as the prey is driven into the hunter’s net.  Whose is the fault?  Your friend’s, who pandered for us!

Henriette.  Fault or no fault:  what does it matter, and what does it mean?—­Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us together before.  He is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, to which he had no right himself.  I am jealous of him on your behalf.  I hate him because he has cheated you out of your mistress.  I should like to blot him from the host of the living, and his memory with him—­wipe him out of the past even, make him unmade, unborn!

Maurice.  Well, we’ll bury him beneath our own memories.  We’ll cover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, and then we’ll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will never look up again. [Raising his glass] Our fate is sealed.  Woe unto us!  What will come next?

Henriette.  Next comes the new era—­What have you in that package?

Maurice.  I cannot remember.

Henriette. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair of gloves] That tie is a fright!  It must have cost at least fifty centimes.

Maurice. [Snatching the things away from her] Don’t you touch them!

Henriette.  They are from her?

Maurice.  Yes, they are.