Thérèse. Yes; but generally speaking their work is not worth much, I think.
Madame Nérisse. Oh, I don't know that. There are a great many who have real talent. People don't realize what a lot of girls there are who have talent. But, still, if I'm not able to take an article every week, you may rely upon me to take one as often as I possibly can. Oh, I shall make myself some enemies for your sake.
Thérèse [in consternation] Enemies? How do you mean enemies?
Madame Nérisse. My dear, it alters everything if you become a professional. Let me see if I can explain. We have our regular contributors. The editor makes them understand that they must expect to run the gantlet of the occasional competition of society women; because, if these women are allowed to write, it interests them and their families in the paper, and it's an excellent advertisement for us. That'll explain to you, by the way, why we sometimes publish articles not quite up to our standard. But if it's a matter of regular, professional work, we have to be more careful. We have to respect established rights and consider people who've been with us a long time. There is only a limited space in each number, and a lot of people have to live out of that.
Thérèse [who has gone quite white] Yes, I see.
Madame Nérisse [who sees Thérèse's emotion] How sorry I am for you! If you only knew how I feel for you! Don't look so unhappy. [Thérèse makes a gesture of despair] You're not an ordinary girl, Thérèse, and it shall never be said that I didn't do all I could for you. Listen. I told you just now that I had some big projects in my mind. You shall know what they are. My husband and I are going to start an important weekly feminist paper on absolutely new lines. It's going to leave everything that's been done up to now miles behind. My husband shall explain his ideas to you himself. It'll be advanced and superior and all that, and at the same time most practical. Even to think of it has been a touch of genius. When you meet my husband you'll find that he's altogether out of the common. He's so clever, and he'd be in the very first rank in journalism if it wasn't for the envy and jealousy of other men who've intrigued against him and kept him down. I don't believe he has his equal in Paris as a journalist, I'll read you some of his verses, and you'll see that he's a great poet too. But I shall run on forever. Only yesterday he got the last of the capital that's needed for founding the paper; it's been definitely promised. We're ready to set about collecting our staff. We shall have leading articles, of course, and literary articles. Do you want me to talk to him about you?
Thérèse. Of course I do. But—
Madame Nérisse. We want to start a really smart, respectable woman's paper; of course without sacrificing our principles. Our title by itself proves that. It's to be called Woman Free.
Thérèse. I'll give you my answer to-morrow—or this evening, if you like.
Madame Nérisse [hesitatingly] Before I go—as we're to be thrown a good deal together—I must tell you something about myself—a secret. I hope you won't care for me less when you know it. I call myself Madame Nérisse. But I have no legal right to the name. That's why I've always found some reason for not introducing Monsieur Nérisse to you and your people. He's married—married to a woman who's not worthy of him. She lives in an out-of-the-way place in the country and will not consent to a divorce. My dear Thérèse, it makes me very unhappy. I live only for him. I don't think a woman can be fonder of a man than I am of him. He's so superior to other men. But unfortunately I met him too late. I felt I ought to tell you this.