Emile. [Enters and goes up to Jeanne] Now I’ll take you home, sister.

Jeanne.  And what do you think of all this?

Emile.  The man is innocent.

Abbe.  But as I see it, it is, and must always be, something despicable to break one’s promise, and it becomes unpardonable when a woman and her child are involved.

Emile.  Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when it concerns my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented from throwing the first stone because I have done the same thing myself.

Abbe.  Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am not throwing any stones either, but the act condemns itself and is punished by its consequences.

Jeanne.  Pray for him!  For both of them!

Abbe.  No, I’ll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinence to want to change the counsels of the Lord.  And what has happened here is, indeed, not the work of man.

(Curtain.)

SECOND SCENE

(The Auberge des Adrets.  Adolphe and Henriette are seated at the same table where Maurice and Henriette were sitting in the second act.  A cup of coffee stands in front of Adolphe.  Henriette has ordered nothing.)

Adolphe.  You believe then that he will come here?

Henriette.  I am sure.  He was released this noon for lack of evidence, but he didn’t want to show himself in the streets before it was dark.

Adolphe.  Poor fellow!  Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to me since yesterday.

Henriette.  And what about me?  I am afraid to live, dare hardly breathe, dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody is spying not only on my words but on my thoughts.

Adolphe.  So it was here you sat that night when I couldn’t find you?

Henriette.  Yes, but don’t talk of it.  I could die from shame when I think of it.  Adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, stuff than he or I—–­

Adolphe.  Sh, sh, sh!

Henriette.  Yes, indeed!  And what was it that made me stay here?  I was lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitched me—­I cannot explain it.  But if you had come, it would never have happened.  And to-day you are great, and he is small—­less than the least of all.  Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs.  To-day he has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn.  And public opinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will be judged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that see farthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he was responsible for it anyhow.

Adolphe.  You know what my thoughts are in this matter, Henriette, but I should like to know that both of you are spotless.  Won’t you tell me what those dreadful words of yours meant?  It cannot be a chance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt so largely with killing and the scaffold.