(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?

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!