Adolphe.  That’s possible, and his motive for doing so may have been the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he is guilty of a murder?

Henriette.  Can’t you see that?—­Don’t you understand?

Adolphe.  Not at all.

Henriette.  Because you don’t want to!—­Then there is nothing left for me but to report him, and we’ll see whether he can prove an alibi.

Adolphe.  Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth.  You, like he, have reached the border line of—­insanity.  The demons of distrust have got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense of partial guilt to wound the other with.  Let me see if I can make a straight guess:  he has also come to suspect you of killing his child?

Henriette.  Yes, he’s mad enough to do so.

Adolphe.  You call his suspicions mad, but not your own.

Henriette.  You have first to prove the contrary, or that I suspect him unjustly.

Adolphe.  Yes, that’s easy.  A new autopsy has proved that Marion died of a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannot recall just now.

Henriette.  Is it true?

Adolphe.  The official report is printed in today’s paper.

Henriette.  I don’t take any stock in it.  They can make up that kind of thing.

Adolphe.  Beware, Henriette—­or you may, without knowing it, pass across that border line.  Beware especially of throwing out accusations that may put you into prison.  Beware! [He places his hand on her head] You hate Maurice?

Henriette.  Beyond all bounds!

Adolphe.  When love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted from the start.

Henriette. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do?  Tell me, you who are the only one that understands me.

Adolphe.  But you don’t want any sermons.

Henriette.  Have you nothing else to offer me?

Adolphe.  Nothing else.  But they have helped me.

Henriette.  Preach away then!

Adolphe.  Try to turn your hatred against yourself.  Put the knife to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that your trouble roots.

Henriette.  Explain yourself.

Adolphe.  Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse your qualms of conscience together.  Break off your career as an artist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for freedom and fun—­as they call it.  And you have seen now how much fun there is in it.  Then go home to your mother.

Henriette.  Never!

Adolphe.  Some other place then.

Henriette.  I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed your secret and why you wouldn’t accept the prize?

Adolphe.  Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-told story.