Clare.  Yes.

     The young man turns to look for the waiter, but Arnaud is not in
     the room.  He gets up.

Young man. [Feverishly] D—–­n that waiter!  Wait half a minute, if you don’t mind, while I pay the bill.

     As he goes out into the corridor, the two gentlemen re-appear. 
     Clare is sitting motionless, looking straight before her.

Dark one.  A fiver you don’t get her to!

Blond one.  Done!

He advances to her table with his inimitable insolence, and taking the cigar from his mouth, bends his stare on her, and says:  “Charmed to see you lookin’ so well!  Will you have supper with me here to-morrow night?” Startled out of her reverie, Clare looks up.  She sees those eyes, she sees beyond him the eyes of his companion-sly, malevolent, amused-watching; and she just sits gazing, without a word.  At that regard, so clear, the blond one does not wince.  But rather suddenly he says:  “That’s arranged then.  Half-past eleven.  So good of you.  Good-night!” He replaces his cigar and strolls back to his companion, and in a low voice says:  “Pay up!” Then at a languid “Hullo, Charles!” they turn to greet the two in their nook behind the screen.  Clare has not moved, nor changed the direction of her gaze.  Suddenly she thrusts her hand into the, pocket of the cloak that hangs behind her, and brings out the little blue bottle which, six months ago, she took from Malise.  She pulls out the cork and pours the whole contents into her champagne.  She lifts the glass, holds it before her—­smiling, as if to call a toast, then puts it to her lips and drinks.  Still smiling, she sets the empty glass down, and lays the gardenia flowers against her face.  Slowly she droops back in her chair, the drowsy smile still on her lips; the gardenias drop into her lap; her arms relax, her head falls forward on her breast.  And the voices behind the screen talk on, and the sounds of joy from the supper-party wax and wane.

The waiter, Arnaud, returning from the corridor, passes to his service-table with a tall, beribboned basket of fruit.  Putting it down, he goes towards the table behind the screen, and sees.  He runs up to Clare.

Arnaud.  Madame!  Madame! [He listens for her breathing; then suddenly catching sight of the little bottle, smells at it] Bon Dieu!

     [At that queer sound they come from behind the screen—­all four,
     and look.  The dark night bird says:  “Hallo; fainted!” Arnaud
     holds out the bottle.]

Languid lord. [Taking it, and smelling] Good God! [The woman bends over Clare, and lifts her hands; Arnaud rushes to his service-table, and speaks into his tube]

Arnaud.  The boss.  Quick! [Looking up he sees the young man, returning] ‘Monsieur, elle a fui!  Elle est morte’!