Nanette. I did that. And it was all a lie.
Diane. But all the time I was urging him to go. We three women fought for mastery. But you see who won! I did! When he came to me at nights—in the country—to my little house where we had been so happy, there, there, in the very room where we were nearest, then I persuaded him. With my kisses, Nanette, with my arms, with all the power I had over him—then was when I thrust him away.
Nanette [triumphantly]. You didn't love him then!
Diane [passionately]. Could I love Maurice and see him stay behind? Could I really want him to save his body for me when thousands were giving theirs for France?
Nanette. For France.... But what of us?
Diane. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!
Nanette. Never loved! How can you say that I have never loved?
Diane. What can you know of my loss? Your love was a habit. It was the love you could have lavished on a dog, or a horse or anything. But with me—now that he is gone, I have lost everything. I have no place to turn. I haven't even memory, as you have. Your love always took on the color of memory, but mine was a living, flaming thing, necessary as food and drink—as life itself!
Nanette [white with passion]. But my love was pure and yours was not. [She crosses the room.] Good God, to think that this thing should ever have happened to us in this house! [She covers her face with her hands and runs out back.]
[After a moment Madame le Bargy enters, left. She is a handsome woman of fifty or more. She wears a long loose gown of white silk. Her voice is perfectly modulated and beautiful. There is about her a gentleness and nobility of perfect spiritual strength. She looks at Diane curiously for a moment, and then goes to her with hand outstretched. During the following the day is fast becoming dark, and the sun's setting is seen from the French window.]