LUCIE. Yes, yes; people forget. If it weren’t for that no one would be alive.
ANNETTE. I feel as if I had lived a hundred years. Life is hard, hard; too hard.
LUCIE. Life is hard for all women.
ANNETTE. It’s worse for me than for anyone else.
LUCIE. Oh, Annette! If you only knew!
ANNETTE. When I’ve seen mothers with their little children I’ve had such dreams.
LUCIE. If you only knew! Those mothers had their own troubles. Nearly every woman carries about with her the corpse of the woman she might have been.
ANNETTE. Ah, Lucie, dear, it’s easy for you to talk.
LUCIE. Darling, you mustn’t think you’re alone in your sorrow. I seem to you to be happy with my children and my husband, and you think my happiness makes light of your distress. But you’re wrong. Your misery makes me so weak, I must tell you what I wanted always to hide from you. My husband does not love me. I don’t love him. Can you realize the loneliness of that? If you knew what it means to live with an enemy and to have to endure his caresses!
ANNETTE. My poor dear!