Henriette.  So you don’t know that Adolphe has made a great success in London and carried off the first prize?

Maurice. [Darkly] No, I didn’t know that.  Is it true, Adolphe?

Adolphe.  It is true, but I have returned the prize.

Henriette. [With emphasis] That I didn’t know!  So you are also prevented from accepting any distinctions—­like your friend?

Adolphe.  My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes!

Maurice.  Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still farther apart.

Adolphe.  That’s what I expected, and I suppose I’ll be as lonely with my success as you with your adversity.  Think of it—­that people feel hurt by your fortune!  Oh, it’s ghastly to be alive!

Maurice.  You say that!  What am I then to say?  It is as if my eyes had been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape of all life had been changed by it.  This room looks like the room I saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different.  I recognise both of you, of course, but your faces are new to me.  I sit here and search for words because I don’t know what to say to you.  I ought to defend myself, but I cannot.  And I almost miss the cell, for it protected me, at least, against the curious glances that pass right through me.  The murderer Maurice and his mistress!  You don’t love me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I care for you.  To-day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive.

(Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at a table in the background.)

Adolphe.  Wait a little and get your thoughts together.  That you have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in some of the evening papers.  And that puts an end to the whole matter.  Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to the worst, you can write a new one.  Leave Paris for a year and let everything become forgotten.  You who have exonerated mankind will be exonerated yourself.

Maurice.  Ha-ha!  Mankind!  Ha-ha!

Adolphe.  You have ceased to believe in goodness?  Maurice.  Yes, if I ever did believe in it.  Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of looking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts.  When I, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, what must then be the wretchedness of the rest?

Adolphe.  Now I’ll go out and get all the evening papers, and then we’ll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a different way.

Maurice. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!—­It means that I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myself away by careless talking.

Adolphe.  Those are not detectives.  That’s only your imagination.  I recognise both of them. [Goes toward the door.]

Maurice.  Don’t leave us alone, Adolphe.  I fear that Henriette and I may come to open explanations.