Henriette.  And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other to death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriage portion; you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and I getting back at you with Jeanne—­and Marion.

Maurice.  Never mention the name of Marion again!  Don’t you know that she was to be buried today—­at this very moment perhaps?

Henriette.  And you are not there?  What does that mean?

Maurice.  It means that both Jeanne and the police have warned me against the rage of the people.

Henriette.  A coward, too?

Maurice.  All the vices!  How could you ever have cared for me?

Henriette.  Because two days ago you were another person, well worthy of being loved—–­

Maurice.  And now sunk to such a depth!

Henriette.  It isn’t that.  But you are beginning to flaunt bad qualities which are not your own.

Maurice.  But yours?

Henriette.  Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feel myself at once a little better.

Maurice.  It’s like passing on a disease to save one’s self-respect.

Henriette.  And how vulgar you have become, too!

Maurice.  Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise myself since that night in the cell.  They put in one person and let out another through that gate which separates us from the rest of society.  And now I feel myself the enemy of all mankind:  I should like to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothing less than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour.

Henriette.  I had a letter from my mother today.  She is the widow of a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas of honour and that kind of thing.  Do you want to read the letter?  No, you don’t!—­Do you know that I am an outcast?  My respectable acquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if I show myself on the streets alone the police will take me.  Do you realise now that we have to get married?

Maurice.  We despise each other, and yet we have to marry:  that is hell pure and simple!  But, Henriette, before we unite our destinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on more equal terms.

Henriette.  All right, I’ll tell you.  I had a friend who got into trouble—­you understand.  I wanted to help her, as her whole future was at stake—­and she died!

Maurice.  That was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, too.

Henriette.  You say so now, but the next time you lose your temper you will accuse me of it.

Maurice.  No, I won’t.  But I cannot deny that it has shaken my faith in you and that it makes me afraid of you.  Tell me, is her lover still alive, and does he know to what extent you were responsible?

Henriette.  He was as guilty as I.