Valsin. That I had not encountered her. [Glibly.] One knows best the people one has never seen. Intimacy confuses judgment. I confess to that amount of hatred for the former Marquis de Valny-Cherault that I take as great an interest in all that concerns him as if I loved him. And the little d'Anville concerns him—yes, almost one would say, consumes him. The unfortunate man is said to be so blindly faithful that he can speak her name without laughing.
Eloise [stunned]. Oh!
Valsin [going on, cheerily]. No one else can do that, Citizeness. Jacobins, Cordeliers, Hébertists, even the shattered relics of the Gironde itself, all alike join in the colossal laughter at this Tricoteuse in Sèvres—this Jeanne d'Arc in rice-powder!
Eloise [tragically]. They laugh—and proclaim her an outlaw!
Valsin [waving his hand carelessly]. Oh, it is only that we are sweeping up the last remnants of aristocracy, and she goes with the rest—into the dust-heap. She should have remained a royalist; the final spectacle might have had dignity. As it is, she is not of her own class, not of ours: neither fish nor flesh nor—but yes, perhaps, after all, she is a fowl.
Eloise [brokenly]. Alas! Homing—with wounded wing! [She sinks into a chair with pathetic grace, her face in her hands.]
Valsin [surreptitiously grinning]. Not at all what I meant. [Brutally.] Peacocks don't fly.
Eloise [regaining her feet at a bound]. You imitation dandy! You—
Valsin [with benevolence]. My dear, your indignation for your friend is chivalrous. It is admirable; but she is not worth it. You do not understand her: you have probably seen her so much that you have never seen her as she is.
Eloise [witheringly]. But you, august Zeus, having never seen her, will reveal her to me!