JEANNE. You love me then?
MAURICE. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps Marion a little more.
JEANNE. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not of her.
MAURICE. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward you?
JEANNE. I don't know, but I am afraid of something, afraid of something terrible—
MAURICE. You are tired out and depressed by your long wait, which once more I ask you to forgive. What have you to be afraid of?
JEANNE. The unexpected: that which you may foresee without having any particular reason to do so.
MAURICE. But I foresee only success, and I have particular reasons for doing so: the keen instincts of the management and their knowledge of the public, not to speak of their personal acquaintance with the critics. So now you must be in good spirits—
JEANNE. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an Abbe here a while ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My faith—which you haven't destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on a window to clean it—I couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, but this old man just passed his hand over the chalk, and the light came through, and it was possible again to see that the people within were at home—To-night I will pray for you at St. Germain.
MAURICE. Now I am getting scared.