LUCIE. What did they say to you?
ANNETTE. I oughtn’t ever to tell anyone about the two hours I have just lived through. It’s too shameful. Too vile. What I can’t believe is that all that really happened to me, and that I am alive still.
LUCIE [tenderly] Tell me all about it.
ANNETTE. What’s the good of my telling you? It’s all over. There’s nothing left. He didn’t love me: he never loved me. He’s gone. He’s going to marry another woman.
LUCIE. He’s gone?
ANNETTE. He went this evening. They all went. M. and Madame Bernin and Gabrielle dined at the station; Jacques dined at a restaurant with some friends. I went there. I sent up for him. From where I was standing, in the vestibule, I heard their jokes when the waiter gave him my message.
LUCIE [in gentle reproach] Annette!
ANNETTE. I wanted to know. I was certain his people were taking him away by force, and I was making excuses for him. I was certain he loved me. I should have laughed if anyone had told me he wouldn’t be horrified when he heard what had happened to me. I thought that when he knew, he’d take my hand, and go with me to his people, and say ‘Whether you wish it or not, here is my wife.’ As I was sure it would end like that, I thought it was better it should be over at once. I expected to come back here to beg your pardon—to kiss you and comfort you.
LUCIE. And what did he say?
ANNETTE [without listening] I think I’ve gone mad. All that happened, and I’m here. I’m quiet: I’m not crying: it’s as if I was paralysed.