HENRIETTE.  I don’t take any stock in it.  They can make up that kind of thing.

ADOLPHE.  Beware, Henriette—­or you may, without knowing it, pass across that border line.  Beware especially of throwing out accusations that may put you into prison.  Beware! [He places his hand on her head] You hate Maurice?

HENRIETTE.  Beyond all bounds!

ADOLPHE.  When love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted from the start.

HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do?  Tell me, you who are the only one that understands me.

ADOLPHE.  But you don’t want any sermons.

HENRIETTE.  Have you nothing else to offer me?

ADOLPHE.  Nothing else.  But they have helped me.

HENRIETTE.  Preach away then!

ADOLPHE.  Try to turn your hatred against yourself.  Put the knife to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that your trouble roots.

HENRIETTE.  Explain yourself.

ADOLPHE.  Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse your qualms of conscience together.  Break off your career as an artist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for freedom and fun—­as they call it.  And you have seen now how much fun there is in it.  Then go home to your mother.

HENRIETTE.  Never!

ADOLPHE.  Some other place then.

HENRIETTE.  I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed your secret and why you wouldn’t accept the prize?

ADOLPHE.  Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-told story.

HENRIETTE.  Well—­what did you do to get peace?

ADOLPHE.  What I have suggested:  I became conscious of my guilt, repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my life like that of a penitent.

HENRIETTE.  How can you repent when, like me, you have no conscience?  Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faith is?

ADOLPHE.  Everything is a grace, but it isn’t granted unless you seek it—­Seek!

(HENRIETTE remains silent.)

ADOLPHE.  But don’t wait beyond the allotted time, or you may harden yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable.

HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punishment?

ADOLPHE.  No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by the misdeeds of our lower selves.

HENRIETTE.  Then I must have a conscience also?

ADOLPHE.  Of course you have, but—­

HENRIETTE, Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call religious?

ADOLPHE.  Not the least bit.

HENRIETTE.  It’s all so queer—­What is religion?

ADOLPHE.  Frankly speaking, I don’t know!  And I don’t think anybody else can tell you.  Sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, for nobody becomes religious without having a bad conscience.

HENRIETTE.  Yes, it is a punishment.  Now I know what to do. 
Good-bye, Adolphe!