(MAURICE takes the package and opens it.)

EMILE.  And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a way my sister’s guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, I acknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tie between you does not exist any longer.

MAURICE.  But you must have a grudge against me?

EMILE.  Must I?  I can’t see why.  On the other hand, I should like to have a declaration from you, here in the presence of your friends, that you don’t think either me or my sister capable of such a meanness as to send the police after Mademoiselle Henriette.

MAURICE.  I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you my apology, if you will accept it.

EMILE.  It is accepted.  And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goes out.]

EVERYBODY.  Good evening!

MAURICE.  The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for the opening night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into the fireplace.  Who can have picked them up?  Everything is dug up; everything comes back!—­And when she gave them to me in the cemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, so that other people would like me also—­And she herself stayed at home—­This hurt her too deeply, and well it might.  I have no right to keep company with decent human beings.  Oh, have I done this?  Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrifice offered to my own welfare.  This was what I threw away in order to get—­a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust that would have belonged in the pillory—­Abbe, now I come over to you.

ABBE.  Welcome!

MAURICE.  Give me the word that I need.

ABBE.  Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations and inform you that you have done nothing wrong?

MAURICE.  Speak the right word!

ABBE.  With your leave, I’ll say then that I have found your behaviour just as abominable as you have found it yourself.

MAURICE.  What can I do, what can I do, to get out of this?

ABBE.  You know as well as I do.

MAURICE.  No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever.

ABBE.  And so you are looking for a new existence in some better world, which you are now beginning to believe in?

MAURICE.  Yes, that’s it.

ABBE.  You have been living in the flesh and you want now to live in the spirit.  Are you then so sure that this world has no more attractions for you?

MAURICE.  None whatever!  Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dry leaves; women, mere intoxicants.  Let me hide myself behind your consecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filled two days and lasted two eternities.

ABBE.  All right!  But this is not the place to go into the matter more closely.  Let us make an appointment for this evening at nine o’clock in the Church of St. Germain.  For I am going to preach to the inmates of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step along the hard road of penitence.