Eloise. Was there anything in your heart for the beggar who stood at your door in the old days?
Louis. Is there nothing for him who stands at yours now, begging for a word?
Eloise [frowning]. I remember you had the name of a disciplinarian in your regiment. [She rises to face him.] Did you ever find anything in your heart for the soldiers you ordered tied up and flogged? Was there anything in your heart for the peasants who starved in your fields?
Louis [quietly]. No; it was too full of you.
Eloise. Words! Pretty little words!
Louis. Thoughts. Pretty, because they are of you. All, always of you—always, my dear. I never really think of anything but you. The picture of you is always before the eyes of my soul; the very name of you is forever in my heart. [With a rueful smile.] And it is on the tips of my fingers, sometimes when it shouldn't be. See. [He steps to the desk and shows her a scribbled sheet.] This is what I laughed at a while ago. I tried to write, with you near me, and unconsciously I let your name creep into my very forgery! I wrote it as I wrote it in the sand when we were children; as I have traced it a thousand times on coated mirrors—on frosted windows. [He reads the writing aloud.] "Permit the Citizen Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, and his second sister, the Citizeness Marie Balsage, and Eloise d'Anville"—so I wrote!—"to embark upon the vessel Jeune Pierrette—" You see? [He lets the paper fall upon the desk.] Even in this danger, that I feel closer and closer with every passing second, your name came in of itself. I am like that English Mary: if they will open my heart when I am dead, they shall find, not "Calais," but "Eloise"!
Eloise [going to the dressing-table]. Louis, that doesn't interest me. [She adds a delicate touch or two to her hair, studying it thoughtfully in the dressing-table mirror.]
Louis [somberly]. I told you long ago—
Eloise [smiling at her reflection]. So you did—often!
Louis [breathing quickly]. I have nothing new to offer. I understand. I bore you.