THERESE [leaning towards her and kissing her hair] Don't cry.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [tears in her eyes and a smile upon her lips] No, no, I won't; and when I think that somewhere or other there's a man you love!

THERESE [smiling] Some day or other I must tell you a whole lot of things about Rene.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Have you seen him again?

THERESE. Yes.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. But you were supposed not to meet any more.

THERESE [with a mutinous little smile] Yes, we were supposed not to meet any more. One says those things and then one meets all the same. If Rene had gone on being the feeble and lamentable young man that I parted from the Barberine evening, I should perhaps have never seen him again. You don't know what my Rene has done, do you now?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. No.

THERESE. I've been looking forward so to telling you. [Eagerly] Well, he's quite changed. He's become a different man. Oh, he's not a marvel of energy even yet, but he's not the helpless youth who was still feeding out of his father's hands at twenty-five.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And how has this great improvement come about?

THERESE [looking at her knowingly] You'll make me blush.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Was it for love of you?

THERESE. I think it was for love of me. Let me tell you. He wanted to see me again, and he waited at the door when I was coming out from my work, just as if I was a little milliner's assistant. And then he came back another evening, and then another. While we were walking from here to my place we chattered, and chattered, and chattered. We had more to say to each other than we'd ever had before, and I began to realize that his want of will and energy was more the result of always hanging on to his people than anything else. Then there came a crash. [She laughs] A most fortunate crash. His father formally ordered him not to see me again; threatened, if he did, to stop his allowance. What do you think my Rene did? He sent back the cheque his people had just given him with quite a nice, civil, respectful letter. Then he left his office and got a place in a business house at an absurdly small salary, and he's been working there ever since. [Laughing] He shocked all the other young men in the office by the way he stuck to it. He got gradually interested in what he had to do. He read it all up; the heads of the firm noticed him and were civil to him, and now they've sent him on important business to Tunis. And that's what he's done all for love of me! Now, don't you think I ought to care for him a little? Don't you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Yes, my dear. But then if he's in Tunis?

THERESE. Oh, he'll come back.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And when will the wedding be?

THERESE. He's sure his people will give in in the end if he can make some money. We shall wait.

The page boy comes in with seven or eight round parcels in his arms.

BOY. Here are this morning's manuscripts.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Put them with the others.

BOY. There was one lady was quite determined to see you herself. She said her article was most particular. It's among that lot.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Very well.

BOY. Mademoiselle Caroline Legrand is coming.

He opens the door and stands back to allow Caroline Legrand to come in. She is dressed in a long brown tailor-made overcoat and a white waistcoat, with a yellow necktie.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Good-morning, Meuriot.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Good-morning, Caroline Legrand. [They shake hands]

CAROLINE LEGRAND. It seems there's something new going on here.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. I believe there is, but I know nothing about it.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. I expect the paper's not going well, the jam hasn't hidden the pill. Even Madame Nerisse's thirtieth article upon divorce at the desire of one party hasn't succeeded in stirring up enthusiasm this time. She's been preaching up free love, but she really started the paper only because she thought it would help her to get the law changed and allow her to marry her "dearest."

THERESE. Mademoiselle Legrand, I have some news that will please you.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Are all the men dead?

THERESE. No, not yet; but I've heard that in a small country town they're starting a Woman's Trade Union.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. It won't succeed. Women are too stupid.

THERESE. They've opened a special workshop there, and they're going to have work that's always been done by men done by women.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. That's splendid! A woman worker the more is a slave the less.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [gravely] Are you quite sure of that?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Oh, don't you misunderstand me! [Forcibly] Listen to this. A time will come when people will be as ashamed of having made women work as they are ashamed now of having kept slaves. But, until then—

THERESE. The employer is rather disturbed about it.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. He's quite right. Very soon there'll be a fierce reaction among the men about this cheap women's labor. There's going to be a new sex struggle—the struggle for bread. Man will use all his strength and all his cruelty to defend himself. There's a time coming when gallantry and chivalry will go by the board, I can tell you.

Madame Nerisse comes in.

MADAME NERISSE. Oh, good-morning, Legrand. I'm glad you're here, I've been wanting to ask your advice about a new idea I want to start in Woman Free. A correspondence about getting up a league of society women—

CAROLINE LEGRAND. What about the others?

MADAME NERISSE [continuing, without attending to her]—and smart people, who will undertake not to wear ornaments in their hats made of the wings or the plumage of birds.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You're giving up Woman Free for Birds Free, then?

MADAME NERISSE. What do you mean?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You'd better make a league to do away with hats altogether as a protest against the sweating of the women who stitch the straw at famine prices and make the ribbon at next to nothing. I shall be more concerned for the fate of the sparrows when I haven't got to concern myself about the fate of sweated women.

MADAME NERISSE. Well, of course. That's the article we've got to write.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Of course.

MADAME NERISSE. We'll write it in the form of a letter to a member of parliament—it had better be a man, because we're going to put him in the wrong—a member of parliament who wants to form the league I suggested. What you said about the sparrows will be a splendid tag at the end. Will you write it?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Rather! It's lucky you don't stick to your ideas very obstinately, because they can sometimes be improved upon. I think I shall write your paper for you in future.

MADAME NERISSE. Go along and send me in Mademoiselle Gregoire and Madame Chanteuil. They'll bother you, and I want them here.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. To write about "Soap of the Sylphs." I know.

She goes out to the right.

MADAME NERISSE. She's a little mad, but she really has good ideas sometimes.

The page boy comes in.

BOY [to Madame Nerisse] The gentlemen are there, Monsieur Cazares and another gentleman.

MADAME NERISSE. Are they with Monsieur Nerisse?

BOY. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Very well, I'll go. [The boy goes out. She speaks to the others] Divide the work between you. [To Madame Chanteuil and Mademoiselle Gregoire, who come in from the right] There's lots of work to be done. [She goes out to the left]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. We'd better sit down. [She sits down and says what follows whilst they are taking their places round the table. She takes up the first letter] This is for the advertising department. Is Mademoiselle Baron here?

THERESE. No, poor little thing. She's trudging round Paris to try and get hold of a few advertisements.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. It's a dreadful job, trying to get advertisements for a paper that three-quarters of the people she goes to have never heard of. It gives me the shivers to remember what I had to go through myself over that job.

THERESE. And poor little Baron is so shy!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. She earned only fifty francs all last month.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. I know her, I met her lately; she told me she was in luck, that she had an appointment with the manager of the Institut de Jouvence.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. And she thinks she's in luck!

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. It appears that that's a place where you can do quite good business.

MADAME CHANTEUIL [gravely] Yes, young women can do business there if they're pretty; but have you any idea what price they pay? Nothing would induce me to put my foot inside the place again.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Oh, the poor little girl! Oh, dear! [A pause. She begins to sort the letters]

THERESE [half to herself] It seems to me our name Woman Free is horrible irony.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [holding a letter in her hand] Oh, Chanteuil, what have you done? Here's somebody perfectly furious. She says she asked you to give her some information in the beauty column. [Reading] It was something she was mistaken about. She wrote under the name of "Always Young," and apparently you've answered "Always Young is a mistake." She thinks you did it to insult her. You must write her a letter of apologies.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Yes, Mademoiselle.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [holding up another letter] "Little Questions of Sentiment." This is for you, Therese. [She reads] "I feel so sad because I am getting old," etc. Answer, "Why this sadness—"

THERESE. "White hairs are a crown of—" [She writes a few words in pencil upon the letter which Mademoiselle de Meuriot has passed to her]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. "Astral Influences." [Looking round] Who is "Astral Influences"?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I am.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [passing her letters] Here are two, three—one without a post office order. Put that one straight into the waste paper basket. Remember that you must always promise them luck, with little difficulties to give success more flavor. And be sure to tell them they're full of good qualities, with some little amiable weaknesses and the sort of defects one enjoys boasting about. [Going on reading] "About using whites of eggs to take the sharpness out of sorrel," "To take out ink-stains." These are for you, dear.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Yes. [She takes the letters] I didn't think of that when I took my degree.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [continuing] "Stoutness"; that's for you too. [Glancing again at the letter] What does this one want? [Fluttering the leaves] Four pages; ah, here we are—"A slender figure—smaller hips—am not too stout anywhere else." That's for the doctor. [She gives the letter to Mademoiselle Gregoire with several others]

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Iodiform soap.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. My dear, not at all, "Soap of the Sylphs."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. But that's exactly the same thing.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. I know that. But it sounds so different. [Taking another letter] "A red nose"—

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Lemon juice.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [continuing] "Superfluous hairs." Be sure to recommend the cream that gives us advertisements; don't make any mistake about that. "Black specks on the chin," "Wrinkles round the eyes."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. There's no cure for that.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Tell her to go to bed early and alone.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. That's too easy, she wouldn't believe in it. Find something else. [Continuing to read] "To make them firm without enlarging them"; that's for you too. And all the rest I think. "To whiten the teeth," "To make the hair lighter," "To give firmness to the bust."

MADAME CHANTEUIL. They're always asking that.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [reading] "To enlarge the eyes," "get rid of wrinkles"—"and double chins"—"a clear complexion"—"to keep young"—ouf! That's all. No, here's one that wants white arms. They're all alike, poor women!

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. And all that to please men.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. To please a man more than some other woman, and so to be fed, lodged, and kept by him.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [between her teeth] Kept is the right word.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Ah, here's Mademoiselle Baron. [To Mademoiselle Baron] Well? What luck?

MADEMOISELLE BARON [miserably] There's no one in the office. I've got the signed contract for the advertisements of the Institut de Jouvence. Now I must go on to the printers. Here it is. Good-bye. [A silence]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [in a suffocated voice] Good-bye, my dear.

They watch her go sadly. A long silence.

THERESE [speaking with great emotion] Poor, poor little thing!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [also quite overcome, slowly] Perhaps she has someone at home who's hungry.

They each respond by a sigh or an ouf! Mademoiselle Gregoire, Madame Chanteuil, and Mademoiselle de Meuriot rise, picking up their papers.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. I must go and see to the "Doctor's Page."

MADAME CHANTEUIL. And I to the "Gleaner's Column."

They go out to the right. Therese rests her chin on her two hands and reflects profoundly. Monsieur Nerisse comes in at the back.

NERISSE [speaking back to the people he has left in his office in an irritated voice] Do as you like. I've told you my opinion. I wash my hands of it. When your draft is ready show it to me. [He shuts the door. Therese, when she hears his voice, has gathered up her papers and is making for the door on the right. He calls her back] Mademoiselle!

THERESE. Monsieur!

NERISSE. Listen. I have something to say to you. [Therese returns] Did Madame Nerisse give you the letter of introduction I wrote for you?

THERESE. Yes, Monsieur. Please forgive me for not having thanked you before.

NERISSE. It's nothing.

THERESE. Indeed it's a great deal.

NERISSE. Nothing.

THERESE. Yes, I'm sure to be received quite differently with that letter from what I should be without it.

NERISSE. I can give you any number of letters like that. May I?

THERESE [coldly] No, thank you.

NERISSE. You won't let me?

THERESE. No.

NERISSE. Why?

THERESE. You know very well why.

NERISSE. You're still angry with me. You do yourself harm by the way you treat me, you do indeed. Listen, this is the sort of thing. Moranville, the editor of the review I was talking about, is going to meet me at my restaurant after dinner. I know he wants just such stories as you write. But Moranville reads only the manuscripts of people he knows—he has a craze about it. Well, I hardly dare propose to you a thing which nevertheless is perfectly natural among colleagues, to come and dine with me first and meet him after. I hardly like—[Therese draws herself up] You see, I'm right. You don't trust me.

THERESE. On the contrary, I'll go gladly. Madame Nerisse will be with you of course?

NERISSE [annoyed] Madame Nerisse! Nonsense! Do you suppose I drag her everywhere I go? Say no more about it. Whatever I say will only make you suspicious. [With a sigh] All this misunderstanding and suspicion is horrible to me. How stupid the world is! There are times when I feel disgusted with everything, myself included! I'm getting old. I'm a failure. I'm losing my time and wasting my life over this ridiculous paper, which will never be anything but an obscure rag. I shall have done for myself soon.

THERESE [awkwardly, for something to say] Don't say that.

NERISSE. Yes, I shall. I might have a chance of saving myself yet if I took things energetically and got free of the whole thing. But I should have to be quick about it. [A silence. Therese does not know what to say and does not dare to leave the room] I'm so low—so unhappy!

THERESE. So unhappy?

NERISSE. Yes. [Another silence. Madame Nerisse comes in and looks at them pointedly] Are they gone?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, they're gone.

NERISSE. Is it all settled?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes. I am to meet them at the bank at four. But they wouldn't give way on the question of reducing expenses as regards the contributors.

NERISSE. And the dates of publication?

MADAME NERISSE. We are to come out fortnightly instead of weekly. [Indicating the door on the right] You must go and speak to them.

NERISSE. Is Therese's salary to be reduced too?

MADAME NERISSE. It would be impossible to make distinctions.

NERISSE. Difficult, yes. Still—I think one might have managed to do something for her.

MADAME NERISSE. I cannot see how she differs from the others. Can you?

NERISSE. Oh, well—say no more about it.

MADAME NERISSE. That will be best. [He goes out to the right. To herself] I should think so indeed! [To Therese] While Monsieur Nerisse was talking to the other man I had a chat with Monsieur Cazares. He was talking about you. He's a nice fellow, and it's quite a good family you know. He's steady and fairly well off—very well off.

THERESE [laughing] You talk as if you were offering me a husband!

NERISSE. And what would you say supposing he had asked me to sound you?

THERESE. I should say that I was very much obliged, but that I decline the honor.

NERISSE. What's wrong with him?

THERESE. Nothing.

MADAME NERISSE. Well then?

THERESE. You can't marry upon that.

MADAME NERISSE. Have you absolutely made up your mind?

THERESE. Absolutely.

MADAME NERISSE. I think you're making a mistake. I think it all the more because this chance comes just at a time—well, you'll understand what I mean when I've told you something that I have to say to you as manageress of Woman Free. It's this. You know that in spite of all we could do we've had to hunt about for more capital. We've found some, but we've had to submit to very severe conditions. The most important is that they insist upon a stringent cutting down of expenses. Instead of coming out every week, Woman Free will be a fortnightly in future, and we've been obliged to consent to reducing the salaries of the contributors in proportion.

THERESE. How much will they be reduced?

MADAME NERISSE. In proportion I tell you. They'll be cut down by one half.

THERESE. And I shall not have enough to live upon even in the simplest way.

MADAME NERISSE. That was exactly what I said to them. And the work will not be the same.

THERESE. My work will not be the same?

MADAME NERISSE. No; you will be obliged to work at night.

THERESE. At night?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes.

THERESE. But then I shall be free all day.

MADAME NERISSE. No, you won't. In the daytime you will have to take charge of the business part of the paper, and in the evening too your work will not be purely literary, but more of an administrative character.

THERESE. It appears to me that I'm asked to accept a smaller salary and to do double work for it.

MADAME NERISSE. I am conveying to you the offers of the new Directors; if they don't suit you, you have only to refuse them.

THERESE. Of course I refuse them, and you may say to the people who have made them that they must be shameful sweaters to dare to offer women salaries that leave them no choice between starvation and degradation.

MADAME NERISSE. Those are strong words, my dear, and you seem to forget very quickly—

THERESE [softening] Yes. Oh, I beg your pardon. But think for a minute, Madame, and you'll forgive me for being angry. I hardly know what I'm saying. [Madame Nerisse half turns away] Listen, oh listen! Forget what I said just now; I'll explain to you. I accept the reduction of salary. I'll manage. I'll get my expenses down. Only I can't consent to give up all my time. You know I have some work in hand; you know I have a big undertaking to which I've given all my life. I've told you about it, you know about that. You know I can only stand my loneliness and everything because of the hope I have about this. If people take all my time, it's the same as if they killed me. I beg you, I implore you, get them to leave me my evenings free.

MADAME NERISSE. It can't be done.

THERESE [pulling herself together] Very well, that's settled. I will go at the end of the month; that's to say to-morrow.

MADAME NERISSE. Take a little time to consider it.

THERESE. I have considered it. They propose that I should commit suicide. I say no!

MADAME NERISSE. I'm sorry, truly sorry. [She rings. While she waits for the bell to be answered, she looks searchingly at Therese, who does not notice it. To the page boy who comes in] Go and call me a taxi, but first say to Monsieur Nerisse—

BOY. Monsieur Nerisse has just gone out, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Are you quite sure?

BOY. I called him a taxi.

MADAME NERISSE. Very well, you can go. [To Therese] I'll ask you for your final answer this evening. [She hands her two large books] If you make up your mind to stay, make me these two bibliographies.

Therese does not answer. Madame Nerisse goes out to the left. Left alone Therese begins to sort the papers on her bureau rather violently. She seizes a paper knife, flings it upon the couch, and afterwards walks up and down the room in great agitation. The door on the right opens and there come in such exclamations as No! Never! It's monstrous! I shall leave! It's an insult!

Caroline Legrand, Mademoiselle Gregoire, Madame Chanteuil, and Mademoiselle de Meuriot come in. Mademoiselle de Meuriot is the only one who has kept her self-possession.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [speaking above the din] Good-bye, all. [She goes to the small salon from which she originally came in, and during the conversation that follows comes in putting on her hat, and goes out unnoticed at the back]

THERESE. Well, what do you think of this?

MADAME CHANTEUIL AND CAROLINE LEGRAND [together] It's an insult.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You must try and keep quiet. [To Therese] What shall you do?

THERESE. I shall leave.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You ought to stay.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. No, Therese is right. We must all leave.

THERESE. We must leave to-morrow—no, this evening.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [quietly] Do you think that you'll be able to make better terms anywhere else?

THERESE. That won't be difficult.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You think so?

THERESE. Rather.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Where, for instance?

THERESE. There are other papers in Paris besides this one.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Then you know a lot of others that pay better?

THERESE. One will be enough for me.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. And you think you'll find a place straight off? You know there are other people—

THERESE. I'll give lessons. I took my degree.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Much good may it do you.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You think you'll be a governess? At one time a governess could get 1,200 francs, now it's 650 francs—less than the cook. And if you were to be a companion—

THERESE. Why not a lady's maid at once?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Yes; lady's maid. That's not a bad idea. It's the only occupation a girl brought up as rich people bring up their daughters can be certain to get and to keep, if she's only humble enough.

THERESE. I shall manage to get along without taking to that.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. But, Therese, have you really been blind to all that's been going on here? Haven't you constantly seen unfortunate women, as well brought up and as well educated as yourself, coming hunting for work? Don't you remember that advertisement of the girl that Caroline Legrand was interested in? That advertisement has been appearing in the paper for the last three months. I'll read it to you. [Caroline Legrand takes up a number of "Women Free" and passes it to Mademoiselle de Meuriot] Here it is. [Reading] "A young lady of distinguished appearance, who has taken a high certificate for teaching. Good musician. Drawing, English, shorthand, etc." I know that girl. She told me all about her life. D'you know what she's offered? She asked two francs an hour for teaching the piano. They laughed in her face, because for that they could get a girl who'd taken first prize at the Conservatoire. They gave her seventy-five centimes. Deduct from that seventy-five centimes the price of the journey in that underground, the wear and tear of clothes, the time lost in going and coming, and then what do you think is left?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Let's be just. She got answers from doubtful places abroad, letters from old satyrs, and invitations to pose for the "movies."

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. What's left then? The stage. It's quite natural you should think of the stage.

THERESE. If one must.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. If one must! You'd condescend to it, wouldn't you? You poor child!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You can't get into the Conservatoire after twenty-one. Are you under that? No. Are you a genius? No. Well then?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Have you a rich lover who will back you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. No. Then you'll get nothing at all in the theatres except by making friends with half a dozen men or selling yourself to one.

THERESE. I'll go into a shop. At any rate, when it shuts I shall be free.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You think they're longing for you, don't you? You forget you'd have to know things for that one doesn't learn by taking a degree; things like shorthand and typewriting. Do you know there are twenty thousand women in Paris who want to get into shops and offices and can't find places?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I know exactly what's going to become of me.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Now you're going to say something silly.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. You think so, you've guessed. Well, I tell you, middle class girls thrown on the world as we are can't get along without a man—a husband or a lover. We haven't got the key of the prison door. We've not learned a trade. We've learned to smile, and dance, and sing—parlor tricks. All that's only of use in a love affair or a marriage. Without a man we're stranded. Our parents have brought us all up for one career and one only—the man. I was a fool not to understand before. Now I see.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Look here, you're not going to take a lover?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Suppose I am?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. My dear, you came here full of indignation, clamoring against the state of society. You called yourself a feminist, but you, and women like you, are feminists only when it's convenient. There are no real feminists except ugly women like me or old ones like Meuriot. You others come about us in a swarm and then drop away one after another to go off to some man. As soon as a lover condescends to throw the handkerchief you're up and off to him. You want to be slaves. Go, my dear, and take your lover. That's your fate. Good-night. [She goes out]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [to Madame Chanteuil] Don't listen to her, you poor child. Don't ruin all your life in a fit of despair.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I can't stay here. I'm not a saint and I'm not a fool. How can I live on what they offer to pay me?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Stay for a little, while you're looking for something else.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Look for something else! Never! That means all the horrors I went through, before I came here, over again! No! no! no! Never! Looking for work means trailing through the mud, toiling up stairs, ringing bells, being told to call again, calling again to get more snubs. And then when one thinks one's found something one comes up against a door guarded by a man who's watching you, and who's got to be satisfied before you can get into the workroom, or the office, or the shop, or whatever it may be. And then you've got to begin again with somebody else and be snubbed again. No. Since it's an accepted, settled, decided thing that the only career for a woman is to satisfy the passions of a man, I prefer the one I've chosen myself.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And what if he goes off and leaves you with a baby?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Well, I'll bring it up. I shan't be the first. Women do it. It happens to one in every five in Paris. Ask Mademoiselle de Meuriot, the old maid, if she wouldn't be glad to have one now? When one grows old it's better to have had a child in that way than not to have had one at all. Ask her if I'm not telling the truth. Ask her if she's happy in her loneliness.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Oh, it's true—it's true! Sometimes—

She bursts into tears. Therese goes to her and takes her in her arms.

THERESE. Oh, Mademoiselle, dear Mademoiselle!

MADAME CHANTEUIL [between her teeth] Good-bye, Mademoiselle. Good-bye, Therese.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [to Madame Chanteuil] Wait, wait. I'm going with you. I am not going to leave you just now.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot goes out with Madame Chanteuil. Therese, left alone, buries her head in her hands and thinks. Then she takes the two books that Madame Nerisse has handed her, and with a determined swing sits down and starts working. After a moment Monsieur Nerisse comes in.

NERISSE. My dear child, I have news for you. Pleasant news, I think.

THERESE [rather grimly] Have you?

NERISSE. One little smile, please, or I shall tell you nothing.

THERESE. I assure you smiling is the last thing I feel like.

NERISSE. If you only knew what I've been doing for you, you wouldn't receive me so unkindly.

THERESE. You can do nothing for me. Will you please leave me alone?

NERISSE. I don't deserve to be spoken to like that, Therese. Listen; we must come to an understanding. I know you're angry with me still about what happened last month. I promised you then I would say no more. Have I kept my word?

THERESE. Yes, you have.

NERISSE. Will you always be angry? Is it quite impossible for us to be friends? I am constantly giving you proofs of my friendship. I've done two things for you quite lately. The first was that letter to the editor you're going to see to-morrow, and the second is what I've done now with our new backer. It's this. They wanted to sack you or to offer you humiliating conditions. I said if you didn't stay I wouldn't stay either. I gave in on other points to get my way about this. I shall have their final answer to-morrow, and I know I shall succeed if I stick to my point.

THERESE. But what right had you to do such a thing? We agreed to forget altogether that you had dared to make love to me. D'you really not understand how that makes it impossible I should ever accept either assistance or protection from you?

NERISSE. I have still the right to love you in secret.

THERESE. Indeed you have not, and you've kept your secret precious badly. Madame Nerisse suspects, and I can see quite well that she's jealous of me. I owe her a great deal; she gave me my first start and got me my place here. I wouldn't make her unhappy for anything in the world. As soon as she hears of what you've done what d'you suppose she'll think?

NERISSE. I don't care a rap what she thinks.

THERESE. But I care very much. You've compromised me seriously.

NERISSE [sincerely contemptuous] Compromised you! Aha, yes, there's the word! Oh, you middle class girls! Always the same! What are you doing here then? What d'you know about life? Nothing. Compromised! Then all your dreams of elevating humanity, all your ambitions, your career, the realization of yourself—you'll give up all that before you'll be what you describe by that stupid, imbecile, middle class word, compromised. When you shook yourself free of your family you behaved like a capable woman. Now you're behaving and thinking like a fashionable doll. Isn't that true? I appeal to your intelligence, to your mind, to everything in you that lifts you out of the ordinary ruck. Your precious word compromised is only the twaddle of a countrified miss. Don't you see that yourself?

THERESE [very much out of countenance] Ah, if I were only certain that you are hiding nothing behind your friendship and your sympathy!

NERISSE [with perfectly genuine indignation] Hiding? You said hiding? Is that what you throw in my face? You insult me? What d'you take me for?

THERESE. I beg your pardon.

NERISSE. What kind of assurance do you want me to give you? Do you believe in nothing? Is it quite impossible for you to feel frankly and naturally, and to say "I have confidence in you, and I accept your friendship"—a friendship offered to you perfectly honestly and loyally? It really drives one to despair.

THERESE [without enthusiasm] Well, yes. I say it.

She puts her hands into the hands Monsieur Nerisse holds out to her.

NERISSE. Thank you. [A silence. Then he says in a low voice] Oh, Therese, I love you, how I love you!

THERESE [snatching her hands away] Oh, this is abominable. You set a trap for me, and my vanity made me fall into it.

NERISSE. I implore you to let me tell you about myself. I'm so miserable and lonely when you're away.

THERESE [trying to speak reasonably] I know quite well what you want to say to me, and it all amounts to this: you love me. It's quite clear, and I answer you just as clearly: I do not love you.

NERISSE. I'm so unhappy!

THERESE. If it's true that you're unhappy because I don't love you, that is a misfortune for you; a misfortune for which I am not in any way responsible, because you certainly cannot accuse me of having encouraged you.

NERISSE. I don't ask you to love me—yet. I ask you to allow me to try and win your love.

THERESE [almost desperate] Don't dare to say that again. If you were an honorable man, you couldn't possibly have said these things to me to-day when my living depends upon you. You know the position I'm in, and you know that if I don't stay here, there are only two courses open to me—to go and live at the expense of my godmother, which I will not do, or to take the chances of a woman alone looking for work in Paris. Don't you understand that speaking about your love for me to-day is the same as driving me into the street?

NERISSE. If you go into the street, it is by your own choice.

THERESE. Exactly. There's the old, everlasting, scandalous bargain. Sell yourself or you shall starve. If I give in, I can stay; if I don't—

NERISSE. I didn't say so. But clearly my efforts to help you will be greater if I know that I'm working for my friend.

THERESE. You actually confess it! You think yourself an honorable man, and you don't see that what you're doing is the vilest of crimes.

NERISSE. Now I ask you. Did I wait for your answer before I began to defend you and to help you?

THERESE. No, but you believe I shall give in through gratitude or fear. Well, don't count upon it. Even if I have to kill myself in the end, I shall never sell myself, either to you or to anyone else. [In despair] Then that's what it comes to. Wherever we want to make our way, to have the right to work and to live, we find the door barred by a man who says, Give yourself or starve. Because one's on one's own, because they know that there's not another man to start up and defend his property! It's almost impossible to believe human beings can be so vile to one another. For food! Just for food! Because they know we shall starve if we don't give in. Because we have old people, or children at home who are waiting for us to bring them food, men put this vile condition to us, to do like the girls in the streets. It's shameful, shameful, shameful. It's enough to make one shriek out loud with rage and despair.

NERISSE [speaking sternly] I've never asked you to sell yourself. I ask you to love me.

THERESE. I shall never love you.

NERISSE [as before] You'll never love. Neither me nor others. Listen—

THERESE [interrupting] I—

NERISSE [preventing her from speaking] Wait; I insist upon speaking. You will never love, you say. You will live alone all your life. You're foolish and self-confident enough to think that you can do without a man's affection.

THERESE. But I—

NERISSE [continuing] I must try to make you understand your folly. These efforts you're making to escape from the ordinary life of affection are useless, and it's lucky for you they are useless. You can't live without love.

THERESE. Why?

NERISSE. All lonely people are wretched. But the lonely woman is twice, a hundred times more wretched than the man. You've no idea what it is. It's to pass all your life under suspicion, yes, suspicion. The world never believes that people live differently from others unless they have secret reasons, and the world always says that secret reasons are shameful reasons. And that's not all. Think of the lonely room where you may cry without anyone to hear you. Think of illness where to your bodily pain is added the mental torture of the fear of dying all alone. Think of the empty heart, the empty arms always, always. And in old age, more wretchedness in the regret for a wasted life. And for what and for whom are you making this sacrifice? For a convention; for a morality that nobody really believes in. Who'll think the better of you for it? People won't even believe in your honesty. They will find explanations for it that would make you die of shame if you knew them. Is that what you want, Therese? I am unhappy. Love me. Oh, if you only—

THERESE. Please spare me your confidences.

NERISSE. You think this is only a caprice on my part. You are mistaken. I ask you to share my life.

THERESE. I will never be your mistress.

NERISSE. You're proud and you're strong. You insist upon marriage. Very well. I agree.

THERESE. I will not have you! I will not have you!

NERISSE. Why? Tell me why.

THERESE. I will tell you why; and then, I hope, I shall have done with you. You're right in one way. I believe I should not be able to live all alone. I should be too unhappy. But at least I'll keep my right of choice. If ever I give myself to anyone, it will be to someone I love. [With vehemence] And I love him, I love him!

NERISSE [violently] You have a lover! If that's true—

THERESE [with a cry of triumph] Oh, have I got to the bottom of your vulgar, hateful little soul? If there ever was any danger of my giving in, your expression then would have saved me. You never thought there could be anything better. A lover! No, I have no lover. I have a love.

NERISSE. I don't see so very much difference.

THERESE [proudly] I know you don't, and that shows what you are. This is the one love of my life, my love for my betrothed. I lost my money and that separated us, but we found each other again. It's unhappy to be separated, but we bear our unhappiness out of respect for what you call prejudices, because we know how our defying them would hurt those we love. You think me ridiculous, but you cannot imagine how utterly indifferent I am. I am waiting, we are waiting, with perfect trust and love. Now d'you understand that I'm perfectly safe from you? Go!

NERISSE [in a low voice which trembles with anger and jealousy] How dare you say that to me, Therese? How dare you bring such a picture before me? I will not allow you to belong to another man. [He advances towards her]

THERESE [in violent excitement] No, no, don't dare! Don't touch me! don't dare to touch me!

She cries out those words with such violence and in a voice of such authority that Nerisse stops and drops into a chair.

NERISSE. Forgive me. I'm out of my mind. I don't know what I'm doing.

THERESE [in a low, forced voice] Will you go? I've work to do.

NERISSE. Yes, I'll go. [He rises and says humbly] I want to ask you—you won't leave us?

THERESE. You dare to say that? You think I'll expose myself a second time to a scene like this. Yes! I shall leave, and leave to-night! Will you go?

NERISSE. I implore you. [Hearing a noise outside, suddenly alarmed] Here she is! Control yourself, I beg of you. Don't tell her.

THERESE. You needn't be afraid.

Madame Nerisse comes in.

MADAME NERISSE [looking from one to the other] What's going on here?

NERISSE. Mademoiselle Therese says that she's going to leave us, and I tried to make her understand—perhaps you could do something—I must go out.

MADAME NERISSE. Yes. Go.

He takes his hat and goes out at the back.

MADAME NERISSE. You wish to leave us?

THERESE. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Because Monsieur Nerisse—?

THERESE. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE [troubled and sad] What can I say to you?

THERESE. Nothing, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. My poor child.

THERESE. I don't want pity. Don't be unhappy about me. I shall be able to manage for myself. I have plenty of courage.

MADAME NERISSE. I'm so ashamed to let you go like this. How honest and loyal you are! [To herself] I was honest too, once.

THERESE. Good-bye, Madame. [She begins to tidy her papers]

MADAME NERISSE. Good-bye, Therese.

Madame Nerisse goes out.

When Therese is left alone she breaks down and bursts out crying like a little child. Then she wipes her eyes, puts her hat on, goes to the cardboard box, and takes out her veil, which she slips into her little bag. She takes out Monsieur Nerisse's letter; still crying she puts the letter into another envelope, which she closes and leaves well in sight upon the table. Then she takes her little black moleskin bag and her umbrella and goes out slowly. She is worn out, almost stooping; and, as the curtain falls, one sees the poor little figure departing, its shoulders shaken by sobs.



ACT III

SCENE:—Therese's studio at the bookbinding workshops of Messrs. Feliat and Gueret at Evreux. Strewn about are materials for binding books: patterns, tools, and silks. A glazed door on the right opens into the general women's workshops, and there is a door leading into a small office on the left. In the middle, towards the back, is a large drawing table; several easels stand about. There are some chairs and a small bureau. Cards hang upon the walls, on which are printed the text of the Factory Laws. There is a door at the back.

It is October.

Monsieur Gueret and Monsieur Feliat come in excitedly.

GUERET. I tell you Duriot's men are coming out on strike.

FELIAT. And I ask you, what's that to me?

GUERET. Ours will do the same.

FELIAT. Oh no, they won't.

GUERET. You'll see.

FELIAT. Duriot's men are furious with the women because of what happened last year.

GUERET. They say woman's the enemy in business.

FELIAT. Let 'em talk.

GUERET. They want Duriot to sack all his women.

FELIAT. And I've told you why. There's no danger of anything like that happening here.

GUERET. You think so, do you? Well, you'll see.

FELIAT. We shall see.

GUERET. You'll give in only after they've broken two or three of your machines as they did Duriot's, or done something worse, perhaps.

FELIAT. My dear Gueret, I get out of the women for a cent what I have to pay the men three cents for. And as long as I can economize ten cents on the piece I shall go on.

GUERET. You'll regret it. If I was in your place—[He stops]

FELIAT. Well, what would you do if you were in my place?

GUERET. What should I do?

FELIAT. Yes, what?

GUERET. I shouldn't take long to think. I'd cut off a finger to save my hand, I'd turn out every one of the women to-morrow.

FELIAT. You're mad. You've always objected to my employing women, and I know very well why.

GUERET. Well, let's hear why.

FELIAT. You want to know. Well, because you've been jealous of Therese ever since she came here six months ago.

GUERET. Oh, I say!

FELIAT. That's it; my sister can't endure her.

GUERET. Marguerite—

FELIAT. You know she wouldn't even see her when she came down from Paris; and if Therese got work here, it was in spite of Marguerite. I was wiser than you about this. The girl's courage appealed to me. She's plucky and intelligent. Oh, I don't want to make myself out cleverer than I am. I took her a bit out of pity, and I thought she'd draw me a few designs; that was all I expected. But she has energy and initiative. She organized the two workrooms, and now she's got the whole thing into order by starting this Union.

GUERET. The Hen's Union.

FELIAT. What?

GUERET. That's what the men call her Union. You should hear the things they say about it.

FELIAT. Well, long live the Hen's Union! A hen's plucky when it has to be.

GUERET. Seriously, it's just this Union which has annoyed the men. They feel it's dangerous.

FELIAT. Very well. I'll be ready for them.

Therese comes in.

GUERET. I'll go and find out what's going on.

FELIAT. Yes, do.

Monsieur Gueret goes out.

THERESE. I've just been seeing the man who makes our finishing tools. He says it's perfectly easy to make a tool from the drawing I did that won't be more expensive than the old one. [Looking for a paper and finding it on the table] Here's the drawing. You see I've thought of cheapness, but I've not sacrificed utility. After all, it's only a copy of a Grolier, just a little altered.

FELIAT. Very good, but what will the price come out at?

THERESE. How much do you think.

FELIAT. I can easily do it. [He calculates during what follows]

THERESE. The beating won't be done with a hammer, but in the rolling machine; the sawing-in and the covering will be done as usual.

FELIAT [having finished his sum] Two francs forty.

THERESE [triumphantly] One franc seventy. You've calculated on the basis of men's work. But, if you approve, I'll open a new workroom for women in the old shop. Lucienne can manage it. I could let Madame Princeteau take Lucienne's present place, and I'll turn out the stuff at the price I quoted.

FELIAT. But that's first-rate. I give you an absolutely free hand.

THERESE. Thank you, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. How do you think the men will take it? You know that last year, before you came here, a strike of the workmen was broken by the women taking the work the men were asking a rise for—taking it at lower wages, too. Since then the men feel very strongly against the women. Your godfather is anxious about it.

THERESE. Oh, leave it to me, I'm not afraid.

FELIAT. Well done. I like pluck. Go ahead. How lucky I was to get you here.

THERESE. How grateful I am to you for believing in me. [Lucienne appears at the door on the right. She is speaking to a workwoman who is not visible, while the following conversation goes on] And how good you are, too, to have given work to poor Lucienne. When I think what you saved her from! She really owes her life to you. At any rate she owes it to you that she's living respectably.

FELIAT. Well, I owe you ten per cent reduction on my general expenses. [With a change of tone] Then that's agreed? You're going ahead?

THERESE. Yes, Monsieur.

FELIAT. I'll go and give the necessary orders. [He goes out]

THERESE. It's all right. It's done. He's agreed! I'm to have my new workroom, and you're to be the head of it.

LUCIENNE. Oh, splendid! Then I'm really of some importance here at last. [A long happy sigh] Oh dear, how happy I am. I'd never have believed I could have enjoyed the smell of a bindery so. [Sniffing] Glue, and white of egg, and old leather; it's lovely! Oh, Therese, what you did for me in bringing me here! What I owe you! That's what a woman's being free means; it means a woman who earns her own living.

THERESE. Oh, you're right! Isn't it splendid, Lucienne, ten wretched women saved, thanks to our new workshop. I've seen Duriot's forewoman. At any moment fifty women from there may be out of work. I can take on only ten at present, and I've had to choose. That was dreadful! Thirty of them are near starvation. I took the worst cases: the old maids, the girls with babies, the ones whose husbands have gone off and left them, the widows. Every one of those, but for me, would have been starved or gone on the streets. I used to want to write books and realize my dreams that way. Now I can realize them by work. I wish Caroline Legrand could know what I'm doing. It was she who helped me to get over my silly pride, and come and ask for work here.

LUCIENNE. Dear Caroline Legrand! Without her! Without you! [With a change of tone] What d'you suppose happened to me this morning? I had a visit from Monsieur Gambard.

THERESE [laughing] Another visit! I shall be jealous!

LUCIENNE. You've reason. For the last week that excellent old man has come every single morning with a book for me to bind. I begged him not to take so much trouble, and I told him that if he had more work for us to do, we could send for the books to his house. What d'you think he did to-day?

THERESE. I've no idea.

LUCIENNE. He asked me to marry him.

THERESE. My dear! What then?

LUCIENNE. Why, then I told him that I was married and separated from my husband.

THERESE. There's such a thing as divorce.

LUCIENNE. Naughty girl! That's exactly what he said. I told him that my first experience of marriage was not calculated to make me run the chances of a second. And then he asked me to be his mistress.

THERESE. Indignation of Lucienne!

LUCIENNE. No! I really couldn't be angry. He offered so naively to settle part of his fortune upon me that I was disarmed. I simply told him I was able to earn my own living, so I was not obliged to sell myself.

THERESE. And he went off?

LUCIENNE. And he went off.

THERESE [starting suddenly] Was that three o'clock that struck.

LUCIENNE. Yes, but there's nothing very extraordinary in that.

THERESE. Not for you, perhaps. But I made up my mind not to think about a certain thing until it was three o'clock. I stuck to it—almost—not very easily. Well, my dear, three o'clock to-day is a most solemn hour in my life.

LUCIENNE. You don't say so!

THERESE. I do. Lucienne, I am so happy. I don't know how I can have deserved to be as happy as I am.

LUCIENNE. Good gracious, what's happened in the last five minutes?

THERESE. I'll tell you. One hour ago Rene arrived at Evreux. He's come back from Tunis. Come back a success and a somebody. And now—

Vincent, a workman, comes in.

VINCENT. Good-morning, Mademoiselle Therese. I want a word with you, because it's you who engages—

THERESE. Not the workmen.

VINCENT. I know. But it's about a woman, about my wife.

THERESE [sharply] Your wife? But I don't want your wife.

VINCENT. I heard as how you were taking on hands.

THERESE. Yes, but I choose them carefully. First of all I take the ones who need work or are not wanted at home.

VINCENT. You're quite right—but I ain't asking you to pay my old woman very much—not as much as a man.

THERESE. Why not, if she does the same work?

VINCENT [with male superiority] Well, in the first place, she's only a woman; and, besides, if you didn't make a bit out of it, you wouldn't take her in the place of a man.

THERESE. But you get excellent wages here yourself. You can live without forcing your wife to work.

VINCENT. Well, anyhow, her few halfpence would be enough to pay for my tobacco.

LUCIENNE [laughing] Come, you don't smoke as much as all that.

VINCENT. Besides, it'll put a bit more butter on the bread.

THERESE. But your wife will take the place of another woman who hasn't even dry bread perhaps.

VINCENT. Oh, if one was bothering all the time about other people's troubles, you'd have enough to do!

THERESE. Now will you forgive me if I meddle a little in what isn't exactly my business?

VINCENT. Oh, go on, you won't upset me.

THERESE. What d'you do when you leave the works? You go to the saloon?

VINCENT [losing control of himself and becoming violent and coarse] That's yer game, is it! You take me for a regler soaker. That's a bit too thick, that is. You can go and ask for yourself in all the saloons round here. Blimey, sometimes I don't drink nothing but water for a week on end! Can you find anybody as has ever seen me blue-blind-paralytic—eh? I'm one of the steady ones, I am. I has a tiddley in the morning, like every man as is a man, to keep out the fog; then I has a Vermouth before lunch, and a drop of something short after, just to oil the works like—and that's the bloomin' lot. Of course you're bound to have a Pernod before dinner to get your appetite up; and if I go for a smoke and a wet after supper, well, it's for the sake of a bit of company.

THERESE [who has been jotting down figures with a pencil while he has been talking] Well, that's a franc a day you might have saved.

VINCENT. A franc.

THERESE [holding out the paper to him] Add it up.

VINCENT [a little confused] Oh, I'll take your word for it. I ain't much good at sums.

THERESE. With that franc you might have put a fine lot of butter on every round of bread.

VINCENT. Well, look here, I want a bicycle.

THERESE. Why? You live five minutes' walk from here.

VINCENT. Yes, but I want to get about a bit on Sundays.

THERESE. There's one thing you haven't thought of. You have two little children. Who'll look after them if your wife comes to work here?

VINCENT. Don't you worry about that. You takes 'em all dirty to the creche every morning and gets 'em back in the evenin' all tidied up.

THERESE. And who's going to get supper ready?

VINCENT [naively] Why, the old woman when she comes back from work.

THERESE. While you take your little drink?

VINCENT [the same tone] Oh, yes; I shan't hurry her up too much.

THERESE. Who'll mend your clothes?

VINCENT. Why, the old woman of course.

THERESE. When?

VINCENT. On Sundays.

THERESE. While you go off for a run on the bicycle?

VINCENT. Yes; it'll be a change for her. And at night I'll take her to see me play billiards. [With a change of tone] That's all settled, ain't it?

THERESE. Indeed, it's not.

VINCENT. Why not? Aren't you going to open a new workroom?

THERESE. Your wife has no need to work.

VINCENT. What's that got to do with you? You're taking on the others.

THERESE. The others are in want.

VINCENT. That's nothing to me. You ought to take the wives of the chaps as works here first.

THERESE. All I can do is to mention her name at the next meeting of our Union.

VINCENT. Oh, damn your Union—it's a fair nuisance!

THERESE. A Union is always a nuisance to somebody.

VINCENT. And you'll ask your Union not to take my old woman?

THERESE. I certainly shall.

VINCENT [rather threateningly] Very well. Things was more comfortable here before you come from Paris, you know.

THERESE [quietly] I'm sorry.

VINCENT. And they'll be more comfortable when you take your hook back.

THERESE. That won't be for a good while yet.

VINCENT. I ain't so damned sure about that! Good-afternoon.

THERESE. Good-afternoon.

He goes out.

LUCIENNE. You've made an enemy, my dear.

THERESE. I don't care as long as I'm able to prevent women being driven to work to pay for their husbands' idleness and drunkenness.

Feliat and Gueret come in. Lucienne goes out.

FELIAT. Tell me, Mademoiselle, if there was a strike here, could you count upon your workwomen?

THERESE. I'm sure I could.

FELIAT. Are you certain none of them would go back on you?

THERESE. Two or three married women might if their husbands threatened them.

FELIAT. Will you try, in a quiet way, to find out about that?

THERESE. Yes, certainly. [She makes a movement to go out]

FELIAT. Look here, it seems that Duriot has just had a visit from two delegates from the Central Committee in Paris, who were sent down to protest against the engagement of women. I'm afraid we're going to have trouble here.

THERESE. The conditions here are very different from those at Duriot's.

FELIAT. All the same, find out what you can.

THERESE. I will, at once. [She goes towards the door]

FELIAT. Whatever happens we must send off that Brazilian order. How is it getting on?

THERESE. We shall have everything ready in three days. I'll go and inquire about the other thing.

[She goes out]

FELIAT. Good.

GUERET. Three days isn't the end of the world. I think I can promise you to keep my men as long as that.

FELIAT. If it's absolutely necessary, one might make them some little concessions.

GUERET. I'll do all I can.

FELIAT. Yes. And if they're too exacting, we'll let them go, and the women shall get the stuff finished up for us. [There is a knock at the door] Come in.

Rene comes in.

GUERET. Hullo!

FELIAT. Rene!

GUERET. You or your ghost?

FELIAT. Where do you come from? Nobody's heard of you for a hundred years.

RENE. Come now, only six months, and you've had some news.

FELIAT. Where are you from last?

RENE. From Tunis.

GUERET. And what are you doing here?

RENE. I'll tell you all about it. I want to have a bit of a talk with you.

FELIAT. Well, we're listening.

GUERET. You're mighty solemn about it.

RENE. It's extremely serious business.

FELIAT. Don't be tragic. You're here safe and sound; and you've not lost money, because you'd none to lose.

RENE. I've come to marry Therese.

GUERET. Well, I must say you don't beat about the bush.

FELIAT. But it's to your own people you've got to say that. What the devil—! Therese has no more money than she had a year ago. So—

RENE. I'll marry her in spite of them.

GUERET. Well, we've nothing to do with it.

RENE. Yes, but I don't want to marry her in spite of you.

FELIAT. Nor in spite of herself.

RENE. I'm certain she won't say no.

FELIAT. But a year ago you solemnly separated; you both agreed everything was over.

RENE. Nothing was over. A year ago I was a fool.

GUERET. To the point again.

FELIAT. And what are you now?

RENE. At any rate I am not quite useless any longer. I'm not a boy now, obliged to do what he's told because he's perfectly incapable of doing for himself.

FELIAT. Have you found something to do?

RENE. I'm in phosphates.

FELIAT. And what the devil are you in phosphates?

RENE. Representative.

FELIAT. How do you mean?

RENE. A commercial traveller, as father said with great contempt.

GUERET. Well, it was not with a view to that sort of future that he had you called to the Bar.

RENE. At the Bar I could have earned my own living in about ten years—possibly. When I had to give up marrying Therese I saw how useless I was. Thanks to her I found myself out. She gave me a bit of her own courage. She woke up my self-respect. Besides, after that I had something to work for, an aim, and I seemed to understand why I was alive. I worked and read a lot; my firm noticed me; they sent me to Tunis. I asked them to let me give up clerk work and have a try on my own. Over there I got into touch with three small firms. I placed their goods. I earn four hundred francs a month. Next year I mean to start a little branch in this district where we will manufacture superphosphates. From now until then I shall travel about the district and try and get customers; and my wife—and Therese—will go on with her work here, if you will be so good as to keep her.

GUERET. Ouf! Think of a young man who can talk as long as that, without taking breath, giving up the Bar. What a pity!

FELIAT [to Rene] Have you told all that to your people?

RENE. Yes. They're not at all proud of my business. And after refusing to let me marry Therese because she had no money they won't let me marry her now because she works for her living. To be directress of a bindery, even of your bindery, uncle, is not distinguished enough for them.

FELIAT. Well, my boy, you certainly couldn't have stood up to things like that a year ago. What d'you want us to do for you? Therese doesn't want our consent to marry; nor do you.

While Monsieur Feliat has been speaking, old Mother Bougne has come in from the right. She is a poor old workwoman who walks with difficulty, leaning on a broom, from which one feels that she never parts. She has a bunch of keys at her waistbelt; her apron is turned up and makes a sort of pocket into which she slips pieces of paper and scraps that she picks up from the floor. Rene looks at her with surprise.

FELIAT. You're looking at Mother Bougne. Good-morning, Mother Bougne.

MOTHER BOUGNE. Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. When does the Committee of your Union sit?

MOTHER BOUGNE. On Wednesday, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. You won't miss it, will you?

MOTHER BOUGNE. I haven't missed one up to now, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. That's right. [She goes out at the back during what follows. Monsieur Feliat turns to Rene and says] We call Mother Bougne our Minister of the Interior, because she tries to keep the place tidy. She's been a weaver near Rouen since she was eight years old; she's been stranded here.

RENE. And she's a member of the Committee of the Union?

GUERET. Yes, she's a member. Therese insisted on it. When Therese founded a Woman's Trade Union here she had the nice idea of including among them this poor old creature, wrecked by misery and hard work. Our Therese has ideas like that. [With a change of tone] But business, business. What do you want us to do for you?

RENE. I've come to ask you two things. The first is to try to get round my people.

FELIAT. Well, I'll try. But I know your father. He's even more obstinate than I am myself. I shan't make the smallest impression upon him. What else?

RENE. I want to have a talk with Therese in your presence.

FELIAT. In our presence! Now listen, my boy. Our presence will be much more useful in the work rooms. We have our hands full here. You've dropped in just at the point of a split between workmen and employers. Besides, to tell you the truth, I think I know pretty well what you have to say to Therese. I'll send her to you. And, look here, don't keep her too long, because she's got her hands full too. [To Gueret] Will you go and telephone to Duriot's?

GUERET [looking at his watch] Yes, there might be some news. [He goes out]

FELIAT [to Rene] And I'll send Therese here.

He goes out and Rene is alone for a few moments. Then Therese comes in. They advance towards each other quietly.

THERESE. How do you do, Rene?

RENE. How are you, Therese?

They shake hands, then, giving way to their feelings, they kiss each other tenderly and passionately.

THERESE [in a low voice] That'll do; don't, Rene dear. [She withdraws gently from his embrace] Don't. Let's talk. Have you seen your people?

RENE. Yes.

THERESE. Well?

RENE. Well, Therese, they won't come to our wedding.

THERESE. They still refuse their consent?

RENE. We can do without it.

THERESE. But they refuse it?

RENE. Yes. Forgive me, my dearest, for asking you to take just my own self. Do you love me enough to marry me quite simply, without any relations, since I leave my relations for your sake?

THERESE. My dear, we mustn't do that; we must wait.

RENE. No, I won't wait. I won't lose the best time of my life, and years of happiness, for the sake of prejudices I don't believe in. Do you remember what you said to me the night we played Barberine? You were splendid. You said: "Marry me all the same, in spite of my poverty." [She makes a movement to stop him] Oh, let me—please let me go on! I was only a miserable weakling then, I was frightened about the future. But you roused me and set me going. If I'm a man now, it's to you I owe it. Thanks to you I know how splendid it is to trust one's self and struggle, and hope, and succeed. Now I can come to you and say: "I am the man you wanted me to be, let us marry and live together." Oh, together, together! How splendid it sounds! Do you remember how you said that night long ago: "Let us conquer our place in the world together"?

THERESE. Oh, Rene! Rene! We must wait!

RENE. Why? Why must we wait? What possible reason can you have for not doing now what you wanted me to do a year ago? Don't you believe in me?

THERESE. Oh yes, yes. It's not that!

RENE. What is it then? Therese, you frighten me. It seems as if you were hiding something from me.

THERESE. No, no. What an idea!

RENE. Is it—oh, can it be that you don't love me so much?

THERESE. Oh, Rene, no, no. Don't think that for a moment.

RENE. But you're not being straight with me. You're hiding something.

THERESE. Don't ask me.

RENE. Therese!

THERESE. Oh, please don't ask me!

RENE. Now, you know very well that's impossible. How can there be secrets between us? You and I are the sort of people who are straight with one another. I must have my share in everything that makes you unhappy.

THERESE. Well, then, I must tell you. It's about your father and mother. Oh, how I wish I needn't tell you. Rene, while you've been away your people have been dreadful to me. Your father came here to see me. He wanted me to swear never to see you again—never. Of course I wouldn't. When I refused to give in he said it was through worldly wisdom. He said: "If he wasn't going to inherit my money, you wouldn't hang on to him like this." He dared to say that to me, Rene—your father whom I have always wanted to respect and love. He thought that of me. And then I swore to him, and I've sworn to myself, that I'll never marry you, never, without his consent. I cannot be suspected of that. You understand, don't you? The poorer I am the prouder I ought to be. [She bursts into tears] My dear—my dear! How unhappy I am! How dreadfully unhappy I am!

RENE. My darling! [He kisses her]

THERESE. Don't, Rene! I couldn't help telling you. But you understand, my dearest, that we've got to wait until he knows me better.

RENE [forcibly] No. We will not wait.

THERESE. I'll never break my word.

RENE. What d'you want us to wait for? A change of opinion that'll probably never come. And our youth will go, we shall have spoilt our lives. You want to send me back to Paris all alone and unhappy, to spend long silent evenings thinking about you and suffering from not being with you, while you, here, will be suffering in the same way, in the same loneliness. And we love each other, and it absolutely depends only on ourselves whether we shall change our double unhappiness for a double joy. [Changing his tone] I can't stand it, Therese. I've loved you for two years, and all this last year I've toiled and slaved to win you. [Low and ardently] I want you.

THERESE. Oh, hush, hush!

RENE. I want you. You're the one woman I've loved in my life. My love for you is my life. I can't give up my life. Listen: I have to be in Paris this evening; are you going to let me leave you broken-hearted?

THERESE. Do you think that I'm not broken-hearted?

RENE. I shan't suffer any the less because I know that you're suffering too.

THERESE. It doesn't depend upon us.

RENE. It depends entirely upon us. Look here, if people refuse to let us marry, our love for each other is strong enough to do without marriage. Therese, come with me!

THERESE. Oh, Rene, Rene! What are you asking me to do?

RENE. Have you faith in me? Look at me. Do you think I'm sincere? Do you think I'm an honest man? Do you think that, if people refuse to let us go through a ridiculous ceremony together, our union will be any the less durable? Is it the ceremony that makes it real? Therese, come with me. Come this evening; let's go together; let's love each other. Oh, if you loved me as much as I love you, you wouldn't hesitate for a second.

THERESE. Oh, don't say that, I implore you!

RENE. Then you don't trust me?

THERESE. I won't do it. I won't do it.

RENE. What prevents you? You're absolutely alone, you have no relations. You owe nothing to anybody. No one will suffer for your action. You've already given a year of your life to the foolish prejudices of society. You've shown them respect enough. First they prevented our marriage because you were poor; now they want to prevent it because you work. Thanks to you I have been able to assert myself and get free. My father and mother can keep their money. I don't want it. Come.

THERESE [in tears] You're torturing me. Oh, my dear, you're making me most unhappy. I could never do that, never. Don't be angry with me. I love you. I swear that I love you.

RENE. I love you, Therese. I swear that I love you. All my life is yours. [He breaks down] Don't make me so unhappy. The more unhappy, the more I love you.

THERESE. I couldn't do it.

Monsieur Feliat comes in.

FELIAT. Hullo! Was it to make her cry like that that you wanted to see her? Is that what you've learnt "in phosphates"? [To Therese] Don't, my dear. [In a tone of kindly remonstrance] You! Is it you I find crying like a little schoolgirl? [Therese wipes her eyes] Oh, I understand all about it. But his father will give in in the end. And you, Rene, be reasonable, don't hurry things.

RENE. But I want—

FELIAT [interrupting him] No, no, for goodness' sake, not just now. We'll talk about it later on. Just now we have other fish to fry. We're in a fix, my young lover. We've got to face some very serious difficulties. Go along with you.

Monsieur Gueret comes in.

GUERET [to Monsieur Feliat] One of the delegates of the Central Committee is outside.

FELIAT. And what does the brute want?

GUERET [makes a gesture of caution and points to the door] He wishes to speak to the Chairman of the Women's Union.

FELIAT. Oh, ask the gentleman in. [To Rene] My boy, you must be off. I'll see you presently.

RENE. Yes, presently.

THERESE [aside to Rene] Be at the station half an hour before the train goes. I'll be there to say good-bye.

Rene goes out. Monsieur Gueret brings in the delegate and goes out again himself.

FELIAT. Good-morning. What can I do for you?

DELEGATE. I am a delegate from the Central Committee in Paris.

FELIAT. I am Monsieur Feliat, the owner of these works. I'm at your service.

DELEGATE. It's not to you I wish to speak. This is a question which doesn't concern you.

FELIAT. Which doesn't concern me!

DELEGATE. Not at present, at any rate. Will you kindly tell me where I can find the person I have come to see?

FELIAT [furious] I—[controlling himself] She is here. [He indicates Therese]

Monsieur Feliat goes out to the right.

DELEGATE. Mademoiselle, I'm here as the representative of the Central Committee in Paris to request you to break up your Women's Union.

THERESE. So that's it.

DELEGATE. That's it.

THERESE. What harm does it do you?

DELEGATE. It strengthens you too much against us.

THERESE. If I asked you to break up yours for the same reason, what would you say to me?

DELEGATE. Our union is to fight the masters; yours is to fight us.

THERESE. It does you no harm whatever.

DELEGATE. Your union supports a movement we've decided to fight.

THERESE. What movement?

DELEGATE. The movement of the competition of women, the invasion of the labor market by female labor.

THERESE. Not a very dangerous invasion.

DELEGATE. You think not. Listen. I've just come down from Paris. Who gave me my railway ticket? A woman. Who did I find behind the counter at the Post Office? A woman. Who was at the end of the telephone wire? A woman. I had to get some money; it was a woman who gave it to me at the bank. I don't even speak of the women doctors and lawyers. And in industry, like everywhere else, women want to supplant us. There are women now even in the metal-working shops. Everyone has the right to defend himself against competition. The workmen are going to defend themselves.

THERESE. Without troubling about the consequences. To take away a woman's right to work is to condemn her to starvation or prostitution. You're not competitors, you're enemies.

DELEGATE. You're mistaken. We're so little the enemies of the women that in asking you to do away with your Union we're speaking in your own interest.

THERESE. Bah!

DELEGATE. We don't want women to take lower wages than ours.

THERESE. I know the phrase. "Equal wages for equal work."

DELEGATE. That's absolutely just.

THERESE. The masters won't give those equal wages.

DELEGATE. The women have a means of forcing them to; they can strike.

THERESE. We don't wish to employ those means.

DELEGATE. I beg your pardon, the women would consent at once. It's you that prevent them, through the Union that you've started. Isn't that so?

THERESE. That is so. But you know why.

DELEGATE. No, I do not know why.

THERESE. Then I will tell you why. It is because the phrase only seems to be just and generous. You know very well that here, at any rate, the owner would not employ any more women if he had to pay them the same wages he pays the men. And if they struck, he'd replace them by men. Your apparent solicitude is only hypocrisy. In reality you want to get rid of the women.

DELEGATE. Well, I admit that. The women are not competitors; they're enemies. In every dispute they'll take the side of the masters.

THERESE. How d'you know that?

DELEGATE. They've always done it, because women take orders by instinct. They're humble, and docile, and easily frightened.

THERESE. Why don't you say inferiors, at once?

DELEGATE. Well, yes; inferiors, the majority of them.

THERESE. If they're inferiors, it's only right that they should take lower wages.

DELEGATE. Oh, I didn't mean to say—

THERESE [interrupting him] But it's not true—they are not your inferiors. If they believe they are, it's because of the wrongs and humiliations you've imposed on them for centuries. You men stick together. Why are we not to do the same? If you start trade unions, why may not we? As a matter of fact, as regards work, we're your equals. We need our wages; and to get hold of the jobs that we're able to do we offer our work at a cheaper rate than you do. That is competition; you must protect yourselves from it. If you want no more competition, keep your women at home and support them.

DELEGATE. But that's precisely what we want: "The man in the workshop, the woman in the home."

THERESE. If the mother is not at home nowadays, it's because the man is in the saloon.

DELEGATE. The men go to the saloons because they're tired of finding the place badly kept and the supper not ready when they go home, and instead of a wife a tired-out factory hand.

THERESE. D'you think it's to amuse themselves the women go to work? Don't you suppose they prefer a quiet life in their own homes?

DELEGATE. They've only got to stay there.

THERESE. And who's to support them?

DELEGATE. Their husbands!

THERESE. First they've got to have husbands. What about the ones who have no husbands—the girls, the widows, the abandoned? Isn't it better to give them a trade than to force them to take a lover? Some of them want to leave off being obliged to beg for the help of a man. Can't you see that for a lot of women work means freedom? Can you blame them for demanding the right to work? That's the victory they're fighting for.

DELEGATE. I'm not at all sure that that victory is a desirable one. Indeed, I'm sure it is not. When you've succeeded in giving the woman complete independence through hard work; when you have taken her children from her and handed them over to a creche; when you've severed her from her domestic duties and also from all domestic happiness and joy, how d'you know she won't turn round and demand to have her old slavery back again? The quietness and peace of her own home? The right to care for her own husband and nurse her own child?

THERESE. But can't you see that it's just that that the immense majority of women are demanding now? We want the women to stay at home just as much as you do. But how are you going to make that possible? At present the money spent on drink equals the total of the salaries paid to women. So the problem is to get rid of drunkenness. But the middle classes refuse to meet this evil straightforwardly because the votes which keep them in power are in the pockets of the publicans; and you socialist leaders refuse just as much as the middle classes really to tackle the drink question because you're as keen for votes as they are. You've got to look the situation in the face. We're on the threshold of a new era. In every civilized country, in the towns and in the rural districts, from the destitute and from the poor, from every home that a man has deserted for drink or left empty because men have no longer the courage to marry, a woman will appear, who comes out from that home and will sit down by your side in the workshop, in the factory, at the office, in the counting house. You don't want her as housewife; and as she refuses to be a prostitute, she will become a woman-worker, a competitor; and finally, because she has more energy than you have, and because she is not a drunkard, she will take your places.

DELEGATE [brutally] Well, before another hour's gone over our heads you'll find that she won't start that game here.

Monsieur Feliat comes in.

FELIAT [to the delegate] My dear sir, a thousand pardons for interrupting you, but as I've just turned your friend out of my house because he took advantage of being in it to start a propaganda against me, what's the use of your going on talking to this lady about a course of action she will no more consent to than I shall?

DELEGATE. Very well, Monsieur. I shall telephone to Paris for instructions. Probably you will refuse to let me use your instrument.

FELIAT. I most certainly shall.

DELEGATE. So I shall go to the Post Office, and in ten minutes—

FELIAT. Go, my dear sir, go. But let me tell you in a friendly way that it'll take you more than ten minutes to get on to Paris.

DELEGATE. It takes you more, perhaps, but not me. Good-morning. [The delegate goes out]

FELIAT [to Therese] The low brute! Things are not going well. What happened at Duriot's has made a very unfortunate impression here. The news that you were going to open a new workshop for the women has been twisted and distorted by gossip and chatter, and my men have been worked up by the other brute to come and threaten me.

THERESE. What d'you mean?

FELIAT. They threaten me with a strike and with blacklisting me if I don't give up the idea.

THERESE. You can't give up absolutely certain profits.

FELIAT. If I am too obstinate, it may result in much larger losses which will be equally certain.

THERESE. But what then?

FELIAT. I've had to promise that for the present at any rate there's no question of taking on any more women.

THERESE. Oh!

FELIAT. What could I do?

Monsieur Gueret comes in.

FELIAT [to Gueret] Well?

GUERET. They wouldn't listen.

FELIAT. I was afraid they wouldn't. [To Therese] That's not all. Your godfather has been trying something else, and I understand he's not succeeded. I shall have to take the mending away from your workshop.

THERESE. The women won't agree to that.

GUERET. Perhaps that would be the best solution of the difficulty.

THERESE [startled] Don't say that. You can't mean it. Think!

GUERET. What's more, the men refuse to finish the work the women have begun.

THERESE. We'll finish it.

GUERET. Then they'll strike.

THERESE. Let them strike. Monsieur Feliat, you can fight now and get terms for yourself. Just at this moment we have only one very urgent order. If the men strike, I can find you women to replace them. Every day I am refusing people who want to be taken on.

GUERET [suddenly] I have an idea.

THERESE. What's that?

GUERET. I know my men; they're not bad fellows.

THERESE. My workers are splendid women.

GUERET. Of course they are. As a matter of fact we're face to face now, not with a fight between men and masters, but with a fight between men-workers and women-workers. The men have their trade union, and the women have theirs. Both unions have a President and two Vice-Presidents. Both have their office. We must have a meeting between the two here at once, in a friendly, sensible way, before they've all had time to excite themselves; and let them find some way out that'll please 'em all.

FELIAT. But, my dear fellow, if you bring them together, they'll tear one another's eyes out.

GUERET. Oh, we know you don't believe the working classes have any sense.

FELIAT [between his teeth] I don't. I've been an employer too long.

THERESE [to Monsieur Feliat] Why not try what my godfather suggests? What do you risk?

FELIAT. I don't mind. But I will have nothing to do with it personally.

GUERET. Neither will I.

THERESE. I'll go and see if Berthe and Constance are here. [To Gueret] You go and fetch your men. [She goes out to the left]

GUERET. I give you my word that, if there's any possible way out, this is the only chance of getting at it.

FELIAT. Very well, go and fetch them.

Gueret goes out. Therese comes in with Berthe and Constance. They are wearing large aprons and have scissors attached to their waistbelts. Berthe is a fat, ordinary woman. Constance is tall, dry, and ugly.

BERTHE [respectfully] Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

CONSTANCE [the same] Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

THERESE. I want Berthe and Constance to tell you themselves whether you can count upon them in case of the men striking.

CONSTANCE. Oh yes, Monsieur Feliat. We'll do anything you want us to.

BERTHE. Oh, Monsieur Feliat, don't send us away!

CONSTANCE [imploringly] Oh, Monsieur Feliat, you won't send us away, will you?

BERTHE. We do want the work so, Monsieur.

CONSTANCE. It's God's truth we do.

FELIAT. I'll do everything possible on my side, but it all depends on yourselves and the men. Try to come to some understanding.

CONSTANCE. Yes, Monsieur.

BERTHE [lowering her voice] If you can't pay us quite as much for the mending, we don't mind taking a little less. You'd keep it dark, wouldn't you?

FELIAT. We'll see about it.

Girard, Charpin, Deschaume, and Vincent come in.

WORKMEN [very civil and speaking together] Good-morning, ladies and gents.

FELIAT. Has my brother explained to you why he asked you to meet the representatives of the Women's Union and to try to come to an understanding with them?

GIRARD. Yes, Monsieur Feliat.

CHARPIN. That's all we want. All friends together, like.

DESCHAUME. That's the hammer, mate!

FELIAT. Then I'll go. Do try and keep your tempers.

ALL [speaking together] Oh yes. To be sure, sir. You needn't trouble, sir.

Feliat goes out. The workmen and workwomen left together shake hands all round without any particular courtesy or cordiality.

CHARPIN. Well, what d'you say to a sit down?

DESCHAUME [speaking of Charpin] That lazy swine's only comfortable when he's sittin' down.

CHARPIN. I ain't agoing to tire meself for nix, not 'arf!

Berthe and Constance have mechanically brought chairs for the workmen, who take them without any thanks, accustomed as they are to be waited upon. When all are seated they see that Therese has been left standing.

CONSTANCE [rising] Have my chair, Mademoiselle.

THERESE. No, thank you, I prefer to stand.

CHARPIN. I see that all our little lot's here. There's four on us, but only three 'er you.

DESCHAUME [meaningly] One of the hens ain't turned up yet.

CHARPIN [sniggering] Perhaps she's a bit shy, like.

THERESE. You mean Mother Bougne. You, workmen yourselves, mock at an old woman wrecked by work. But you're right. She ought to be here. I'll go and fetch her. Only to look at her would be an argument on our side. [She goes out to the right]

DESCHAUME. Mademoiselle Therese needn't kick up such a dust about a little thing like that. There's four on us; so there must be four on you, in case we have to take a vote.

Therese comes back with Mother Bougne.

THERESE [to the workmen] Give me a chair. [They do so] Sit down, Mother Bougne. [Insisting] Mother Bougne, sit down.

MOTHER BOUGNE. Oh, don't trouble, miss, I'm not used to—

THERESE [sharply] Sit down.

Mother Bougne sits down.

CHARPIN. Well, here's the bloomin' bunch of us.

DESCHAUME. We'd best fix up a chairman.

GIRARD. What's the good of that?

DESCHAUME. We'd best have you, Girard. You've education, and you're up to all the dodges about public meetings.

GIRARD. It's not worth while.

DESCHAUME. Well, I only put it forrard because it's the usual. But have it your own way! [A silence] Only don't all jaw at once. You'll see you'll want a chairman, I tell you that, but I don't care. It ain't my show.

CHARPIN. Get a move on you, Girard, and speak up.

GIRARD. Well, ladies—

VINCENT [interrupting] Now look here. I want to get at an understandin'.

THERESE. Monsieur Girard, will you be kind enough to speak for your friends? We have nothing to say on our part. We're asking for nothing.

GIRARD. Well, that's true. We want to have the mending back.

THERESE. And we don't mean to give it up.

GIRARD. Well, we expected that. Now, to show you that we're not such a bad lot as you think, we'll share it with you on two conditions. The first is that you're paid the same wages as we are.

DESCHAUME. Look here, that won't suit me at all, that won't. If my old woman gets as much as me, how am I to keep her under? Blimey, she'll think she's my bloomin' equal!

GIRARD [impatiently] Oh, bung her into some other berth. Let me go on. The second condition is that you aren't to have a separate workshop. We'll all work together as we used to.

THERESE. Why?

DESCHAUME. You women do a damned sight too much for your ha'pence.

GIRARD. Yes, it's all in the interests of the masters. It's against solidarity.

THERESE. Will you allow me to express my astonishment that you should make conditions with us when you wish to take something from us?

CHARPIN. We're ony tellin' you our terms for sharing the work with you.

THERESE. I quite understand; but we have no desire to share it with you. We mean to keep it. And I'm greatly surprised to hear you suggest that we should all work together.

CONSTANCE. Indeed we won't.

DESCHAUME. Why not, Mademoiselle? When we worked together—

CONSTANCE [interrupting] When we worked with you before, you played all sorts of dirty tricks on us to make us leave.

DESCHAUME. What tricks? Did you hear anything about that, Charpin?

CHARPIN. I dunnow what she's talkin' about. D'you Vincent?

VINCENT. Look here, I only want to get to an understandin'.

CONSTANCE. You never stopped sayin' beastly things.

DESCHAUME AND CHARPIN [protesting together] Oh! O-ho!

DESCHAUME. Well, if we can't have a bit of chippin' in a friendly way like!

BERTHE. Beastly things like that ain't jokes. I didn't know where to look meself; and I've sat for a sculptor, so I ain't too particular.

CHARPIN. He! He! I thought she was talkin' about that old joke of the rats.

The men laugh together.

THERESE. Yes, you're laughing about it still! About shutting up live rats in our desks before we came to work.

GIRARD. He! He! We didn't mean any harm.

THERESE. You didn't mean any harm! The little apprentice was ill for a week, and Madame Dumont had a bad fall. You thought of dozens of things of that kind, like the typists who mixed up all the letters on the women's desks. When we went away to get our lunch, you came and spoilt our work and made the women lose a great part of their day's pay or work hours of overtime. We don't want any more of that. You agreed we should have a separate workshop. We'll keep it.

GIRARD. If Monsieur Feliat sticks to you, we'll have to come out on strike.

THERESE. We don't want Monsieur Feliat to get into trouble because of us.

GIRARD. Well, what are you going to do about it?

THERESE. We'll take your places.

CHARPIN [bringing his fist down with a bang upon the table] Well, I'm damned!

DESCHAUME [threateningly] If you do, we'll have to put you through it!

CONSTANCE. We'll do it!

GIRARD [to Therese] D'you understand now, Mademoiselle, why we socialists don't want women in the factory or in the workshop? The woman's the devil because of the low salary she has to take. She's a victim, and she likes to be a victim, and so she's the best card the employer has to play against a strike. The women are too weak, and if I might say so, too slavish—

DESCHAUME. Yes, that's the word, mate, slavish.

BERTHE [very angry] Look at that man there, my husband, and hear what he's saying before me, his wife, that he makes obey him like a dog. He beats me, he does. You don't trouble about my being what you call slavish when it's you that profits by it! I'd like to know who taught women to be slavish but husbands like you.

THERESE. You've so impressed it upon women that they're inferior to men, that they've ended by believing it.

GIRARD. Well, maybe there's exceptions, but it's true in the main.

DESCHAUME. Let 'em stay at home, I says, and cook the bloomin' dinner.

BERTHE. And what'll they cook the days when you spend all your wages in booze.

GIRARD. It's the people that started you working that you ought to curse.

BERTHE. I like that! It was my husband himself that brought me to the workshop.

THERESE. She's not the only one, eh, Vincent?

VINCENT. But I ain't sayin' nothin', I ain't. What are you turnin' on me for? I ain't sayin' nothin'.

BERTHE. We'd like nothing better than to stay at home. Why don't you support us there?

CONSTANCE. It's because you don't support us there that you've got to let us work.

DESCHAUME. We ain't going to.

BERTHE. We won't give in to you.

GIRARD. If you don't, we'll turn the job in.

THERESE. And I tell you that we shall take your places.

DESCHAUME. Rats! You can't do it.

THERESE. We couldn't at one time, that's true. But now we've got the machines. The machines drove the women from their homes. Up to lately one had to have a man's strength for the work; now, by just pulling a lever, a woman can do as much and more than the strongest man. The machines revenge us.

DESCHAUME. We'll smash the things.

GIRARD. She's right. By God, she's right! It's them machines has done it. If any one had told my grandfather a time would come when one chap could keep thousands of spindles running and make hundreds of pairs of stockings in a day, and yards and yards of woollen stuff, and socks and shirts and all, why grandfather'd've thought everybody'd have shirts and socks and comforters and shoes, and there'd be no more hard work and empty bellies. Curse the damned things! We works longer hours, and there's just as many bare feet and poor devils shivering for want of clothes. The machines were to give us everything, blast 'em! The workers are rotten fools! The damned machines have made nothing but hate between them that own them and them that work them. They've used up the women and even the children; and it's all to sell the things they make to niggers or Chinamen; and maybe we'll have war about it. They've made the middle classes rich, and they're the starvation of all of us; and after they've done all that, here are the women, our own women, want to help 'em to best us!