Miss G. Take me to my carriage. And—and come and see if I’m not perfectly logical to-morrow.
(He releases her arm and kisses her hand. She adds in a low voice:) And—somehow—it is absurd—so wonderfully happy to-night! Will you come with me?
Mr M. Will I live? Come! Quick—through your conservatory! (He puts his arm round her waist.) Come!
(They disappear into the conservatory on the left.)
LA MORT À LA MODE[2]
MONSIEUR LE DUC—MADAME LA MARQUISE
(The tumbril is the last of a row of several, some of which have left, some of which stand at, the gates of the Conciergerie. The others are full, in this the Duc is alone. At the beginning of the conversation the tumbril stands still, later it is moving slowly, escorted through a turbulent crowd by National Guards to its destination in the Place Louis Quinze (Place de la Revolution.) The time is noon of a fine day during the Reign of Terror.)
DUC. Alone! My luck holds to the last. They’re close as fish in a tub in the others—and by strange chance every man next to his worst enemy—or at least his best friend’s husband! These rascals have no consideration. Ah, somebody coming here! I’ve to have company after all. A woman too—deuce take it! (A lady is assisted into the tumbril. The Duc rises, bows, and starts.) Marquise! (The lady sinks on the bench across the tumbril.) You here! (He takes snuff and murmurs:) Awkward! (Pauses and murmurs again:) Even her! Curse the hounds!
Marquise. I—I heard you had escaped.
Due. Ah, madame, I can no longer expect justice from you—only mercy. And—excuse me—M. le Marquis?