Diane [not noticing Nanette's hostility]. And about your house in the country, and his garden and books and his piano and all the things he loved. Then he went on and told me about his work, and how he wanted to be a great writer, how he wanted to carry on what was best in the French theater. He promised to show me his play.
Nanette. His play!
Diane. I told him to come to my house and read it to me. He came the next day. It was the twenty-first of March. I remember the date perfectly.
Nanette. We always left town on that day, but we could not get Maurice to go, so we had to leave him behind. Now I understand.
Diane. Yes. He stayed to lunch with me, and that afternoon I had him read his play to me. Do you remember how beautiful his voice was? It started in a sort of sing song, like a child singing itself to sleep, but as he went on his voice grew deeper and stronger, all your senses melted into his voice and he carried you along as if on a great wave of emotion, of ecstasy. Monsieur Laugier came later. He was my manager then. I had Maurice read the play to him. And later some other people came, and every one urged Monsieur Laugier to take the play. I begged him to read it. I will never forget it. It seemed to me the most important thing in the world. Well, as you know, Monsieur Laugier did produce Maurice's play. And, although they wouldn't let me be in it, I always considered it my play, too.
Nanette. Then the story he told us of his meeting with Monsieur Laugier—that wasn't true?
Diane. No. I invented that for him to tell you.
Nanette. He lied to us!
Diane. You would never have understood.
Nanette. Let me think—Maurice's play was produced in September, 1913. That is two years ago. Two years.... Maurice lived here with us—day after day—saying nothing—telling us nothing—We never suspected. We never dreamed that he would deceive us.