VAGRET. What would you have?

ATTORNEY-GENERAL. Do as you wish; but I should like to tell you one thing. When a man plans a startling trick of this kind and has the courage to accomplish it entirely of his own accord, he must have the courage to accept the sole responsibility of the blunders he may commit. You are too clever; you want to discover some means by which you need not be the only one to suffer from the consequences of your vacillations.

VAGRET. Clever? I? How?

ATTORNEY-GENERAL. Come, come! We are not children, and I can perfectly well see the trap into which you have lured me. You are sheltering yourself behind me. If the Chancellery should complain of your attitude, you will say that you consulted your superior, and I shall be the victim. And then I shall have a quarrel with the Chancellery on my hands. You don't care, you don't think of my position or my interests, of which you know nothing. Some silly idea gets into your head, and against my will you want to make me responsible for it. I say again, it is extremely clever, and I congratulate you, but I don't thank you.

VAGRET. You have misunderstood me, sir. I have no wish to burden you with the responsibilities I am about to assume. I should hardly choose the moment when I am on the point of being appointed Councillor to perpetrate such a blunder. I told you of my perplexity, and I asked your advice. That was all.

THE PRESIDENT. Are you certain one way or the other?

VAGRET. If I were certain, should I ask advice? [A pause] If we only had a cause for cassation, a good—

THE PRESIDENT [enraged] What's that you say? Cause for cassation? Based on an error or on an oversight on my part, no doubt! Really, you have plenty of imagination! You are attacked by certain doubts, certain scruples—I don't know what—and in order to quiet your morbidly distracted conscience you ask me kindly to make myself the culprit! Convenient, in truth, to foist on others who have done their duty the blunders one may have committed oneself!

ATTORNEY-GENERAL [quietly] It is indeed.

THE PRESIDENT. And at the Chancellery, when they mention me, they'll say, "Whatever sort of a councillor is this, who hasn't even the capacity to preside over an Assize Court at Mauleon!" A man whom we've taken such trouble to get condemned! And to make me, me, the victim of such trickery! No, no! Think of another way, my dear Monsieur; you won't employ that, I can assure you.

VAGRET. Then I shall seek other means; but I shall not leave matters in their present state.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL. Do what you like, but realize that I have given you no advice in one direction or another.

VAGRET. I realize that.

THE PRESIDENT. When you have decided to resume the hearing you will notify us.

VAGRET. I will notify you.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL [to the President] Let us go.

They leave the office.

SCENE IX:—Vagret, Madame Vagret.

MADAME VAGRET. What is it?

VAGRET. Nothing.

MADAME VAGRET. Nothing? You are so depressed—and yet you've just had such a success as will tell on your career.

VAGRET. It is that success which alarms me.

MADAME VAGRET. Alarms you?

VAGRET. Yes, I'm afraid—

MADAME VAGRET. Afraid of what?

VAGRET. Of having gone too far.

MADAME VAGRET. Too far! Doesn't the murderer deserve death ten times over?

VAGRET [after a pause] Are you quite certain, yourself, that he is a murderer?

MADAME VAGRET. Yes.

VAGRET [in a low voice] Well—for myself—

MADAME VAGRET. You?

VAGRET. I—I don't know. I know nothing.

MADAME VAGRET. My God!

VAGRET. A dreadful thing happened to me in the course of my indictment. While I, the State Attorney, the official prosecutor, was exercising my function, another self was examining the case calmly, in cold blood; an inner voice kept reproaching me for my violence and insinuating into my mind a doubt, which has gone on increasing. A painful struggle has been going on in my mind, a cruel struggle—and if, as I was finishing, I labored under that emotion of which the President was speaking, if when I demanded the death penalty my voice was scarcely audible, it was because I was at the end of my struggle; because my conscience was on the point of winning the battle, and I made haste to finish, because I was afraid it would speak out against my will. When I saw the advocate remain seated and that he was not going to resume his speech in order to tell the jury the things I would have had him tell them—then I was really afraid of myself, afraid of my actions, of my words, of their terrible consequences, and I wanted to gain time.

MADAME VAGRET. But, my dear, you have done your duty; if the advocate has not done his, that does not concern you.

VAGRET. Always the same reply. If I were an honest man I should tell the jury, when the hearing is resumed, of the doubts that have seized me. I should explain how those doubts arose in me; I should call their attention to a point which I deliberately concealed from them, because I believed the counsel for the defence would point it out to him.

MADAME VAGRET. You know, my dear, how thoroughly I respect your scruples, but allow me to tell you all the same that it won't be you who will declare Etchepare guilty or not guilty; it will be the jury. If anyone ought to feel disturbed, it is Maitre Placat, not you—

VAGRET. But I ought to represent justice!

MADAME VAGRET. Here is a prisoner who comes before you with previous convictions, with a whole crushing series of circumstances establishing his guilt. He is defended by whom? By one of the ornaments of the Bar, a man famed for his conscience as much as for his ability and his oratorical skill. You expound the facts to the jury. If the jury agrees with you, I cannot see that your responsibility as a magistrate is involved.

VAGRET. I don't think about my responsibility as a magistrate—but my responsibility as a man is certainly involved! No! No! I have not the right. I tell you there is a series of circumstances in this case of which no one has spoken and the nature of which makes me believe in the innocence of the accused.

MADAME VAGRET. But—these circumstances—how was it you knew nothing of them until now?

VAGRET [his head drooping] Do you think I did know nothing of them? My God! Shall I have the courage to tell you everything? I am not a bad man, am I? I wouldn't wish anyone to suffer for a fault of mine—but—oh, I am ashamed to admit it, to say it aloud, even, when I have admitted it to myself! Well, when I was studying the brief, I had got it so firmly fixed in my mind, to begin with, that Etchepare was a criminal, that when an argument in his favor presented itself to my mind, I rejected it utterly, shrugging my shoulders. As for the facts of which I am speaking, and which gave rise to my doubts—at first I simply tried to prove that those facts were false, taking, from the depositions of the witnesses, only that which would militate against their truth and rejecting all the rest, with a terrible simplicity of bad faith. And in the end, in order to dissipate my last scruples, I told myself, just as you told me, "That is the business of the defence; it isn't mine!" Listen, and you'll see to what point the exercise of the magistrate's office distorts our natures, makes us unjust and cruel. At first I had a feeling of delight when I saw that the President, in his cross-examination, was throwing no light whatever on this series of little facts. It was my profession speaking in me, my profession, do you see? Oh, what poor creatures we are, what poor creatures!

MADAME VAGRET. Perhaps the jury won't find him guilty?

VAGRET. It will find him guilty.

MADAME VAGRET. Or it may find there are extenuating circumstances.

VAGRET. No. I adjured them too earnestly to refuse to do so. I was zealous enough, wasn't I? Violent enough?

MADAME VAGRET. That's true. Why did you make your indictment so passionately?

VAGRET. Ah, why, why? Long before the hearing of the case it was so clearly understood by everybody that the prisoner was the criminal! And then it all went to my head, it intoxicated me—the way they talked. I was the spokesman of humanity, I was to reassure the countryside, I was to restore tranquillity to the family, and I don't know what else! So then—I felt I must show myself equal to the part intrusted to me. My first indictment was relatively moderate—but when I saw the celebrated counsel making the jurymen weep, I thought I was lost; I felt the verdict would escape me. Contrary to my habit, I replied. When I rose to my feet for the second time I was like a man fighting, who has just had a vision of defeat, and who therefore fights with the strength of despair. From that moment Etchepare, so to speak, no longer existed. I was no longer concerned to defend society or sustain my accusation; I was contending against the advocate; it was a trial of orators, a competition of actors; I had to be the victor at all costs. I had to convince the jury, resume my hold on it, wring from it the double "yes" of the verdict. I tell you, Etchepare no longer counted; it was I who counted, my vanity, my reputation, my honor, my future. It's shameful, I tell you, shameful. At any cost I wanted to prevent the acquittal which I felt was certain. And I was so afraid of not succeeding that I employed every argument, good and bad, even that of representing to the terrified jurymen their own houses in flames, their own flesh and blood murdered. I spoke of the vengeance of God falling on judges without severity. And all this in good faith—or rather unconsciously, in a burst of passion, in an access of anger against the advocate, whom I hated at that moment with all my might. My success was greater than I hoped; the jury is ready to obey me; and I, my dear, I have allowed myself to be congratulated, I have grasped the hands held out to me. That is what it is to be a magistrate!

MADAME VAGRET. Never mind. Perhaps there aren't ten in all France who would have acted otherwise.

VAGRET. You are right. Only—if one reflects—it's precisely that that's so dreadful.

RECORDER [entering] Monsieur le Procureur, the President is asking when the sitting can be resumed.

VAGRET. At once.

MADAME VAGRET. What are you going to do?

VAGRET. My duty as an honest man. [He makes ready to go]

CURTAIN.



ACT IV

SCENES—Same as the Second Act.

SCENE I:-Bunerat, the President of Assizes, and Vagret.

BUNERAT. Well, your honor, there's another session finished.

THE PRESIDENT [in red robe] I've been in a blue funk lest these brutes would make me lose my train. I'm going shooting to-morrow on the Cambo Ponds, you see, my dear fellow, and after to-night's train it's no go. [Looks at his watch] Oh, I've an hour and a half yet.

BUNERAT. And what do you think of it, your honor?

THE PRESIDENT. Of what? Of the acquittal? What does it matter to me? I don't care—on the contrary, I prefer it. I am certain the advocate won't ferret out some unintentional defect—some formality gone wrong. Where's my hat-box?

He is about to stand on a chair to reach the hat-box, which is on the top of a cupboard. Bunerat precedes him.

BUNERAT. Permit me, Monsieur. You are at home here. [From the chair] I believe I shall have the pleasure of seeing you here again next session. [He sighs, holding out the hat-box]

THE PRESIDENT. A pleasure I shall share, my dear fellow. [He takes out a small felt hat from the box]

BUNERAT. Would you like a brush? There's Mouzon's brush. [A sigh] Ah, good God, when shall I leave Mauleon? I should so like to live at Pau!

THE PRESIDENT. Pooh! A much overrated city! Come, come!

BUNERAT. I suppose my new duties won't take me there yet?

THE PRESIDENT. Don't you worry yourself. In the winter, yes, it's very well—but the summer—ah, the summer.

BUNERAT. I am not the one appointed?

THE PRESIDENT. Ah! You know already?

BUNERAT. Yes—I—yes—that is to say, I didn't know it was official.

THE PRESIDENT [brushing his hat and catching sight of a dent] Dented already. In these days the hats they sell you for felt, my dear chap, they're paste-board, simply—

BUNERAT. True. Yes, I didn't know it was official. Monsieur Mouzon is very lucky.

Enter Vagret in mufti.

THE PRESIDENT. There, there is our dear Monsieur Vagret. Changed your dress already. Yes, you're at home, you. For my part I must pack up all this. Where the devil is the box I put my gown in? [Bunerat makes a step to fetch it and then remains motionless] It's curious—that—what have they done with it? In that cupboard—you haven't seen it, my dear Monsieur Bunerat?

BUNERAT. No.

THE PRESIDENT. Ah, here it is—and my jacket in it. [He opens the box and takes out his jacket, which he lays aside on the table] Well, well, you've got them acquitted, my dear sir! Are you satisfied?

VAGRET. I am very glad.

THE PRESIDENT. And if they are the murderers?

VAGRET. I must console myself with Berryer's remark: "It is better to leave ten guilty men at liberty than to punish one innocent man."

THE PRESIDENT. You have a sensitive nature.

VAGRET. Ought one to have a heart of stone, then, to be a magistrate?

THE PRESIDENT [tying up the box in which he has put his judge's bonnet] One must keep oneself above the little miseries of humanity.

VAGRET. Above the miseries of others.

THE PRESIDENT. Hang it all—

VAGRET. That is what we call egoism.

THE PRESIDENT. Do you say that for my benefit?

VAGRET. For all three of us.

BUNERAT. Au revoir, gentlemen. Au revoir. [He shakes hands with each and goes out]

THE PRESIDENT [taking off his gown] My dear Monsieur, I beg you to be more moderate in your remarks.

VAGRET. Ah, I assure you that I am moderate! If I were to speak what is in my mind, you would hear very unpleasant things.

THE PRESIDENT [in shirt sleeves] Are you forgetting to whom you are speaking? I am a Councillor of the Court, Monsieur le Procureur.

VAGRET. Once again, I am not speaking to you merely; the disagreeable things I might say would condemn me equally. I am thinking of those poor people.

THE PRESIDENT [brushing his gown] What poor people? The late prisoners? But after all, they are acquitted. What more do you want? To provide them with an income?

VAGRET. They are acquitted, true; but they are condemned, all the same. They are sentenced to misery for life.

THE PRESIDENT. What are you talking about?

VAGRET. And through your fault, Monsieur.

THE PRESIDENT [stopping in his task of folding his gown] My fault!

VAGRET. And what is so particularly serious is that you didn't know it, you didn't see, you haven't seen the harm you did.

THE PRESIDENT. What harm? I have done no harm! I?

VAGRET. When you informed Etchepare that his wife had long ago been condemned for receiving stolen goods, and that she had been seduced before his marriage with her. When you did that you did a wicked thing.

THE PRESIDENT. You are a Don Quixote. Do you suppose Etchepare didn't know all that?

VAGRET. If you had noticed his emotion when his wife, on your asking her if the facts were correct, replied that they were, you would be certain, as I am, that he knew nothing.

THE PRESIDENT [packing his gown in its box] Well, even so! You attribute to people of that sort susceptibilities which they don't possess.

VAGRET. Your honor, "people of that sort" have hearts, just as you and I have.

THE PRESIDENT. Admitted. Didn't my duty force me to do as I did?

VAGRET. I know nothing about that.

THE PRESIDENT [still in shirt sleeves] It's the law that is guilty, then, eh? Yes? Well, Monsieur, if I did my duty—and I did—you are lacking in your duty in attacking the law, whose faithful servant you should be, the law which I, for one, am proud to represent.

VAGRET. There's no reason for your pride.

THE PRESIDENT. Monsieur!

VAGRET. It's a monstrous thing, I tell you, that one can reproach an accused person, whether innocent or guilty, with a fault committed ten years ago, and which has been expiated. Yes, Monsieur, it is a horrible thing that, after punishing, the law does not pardon.

THE PRESIDENT [who has put on his jacket and hat] If you think the law is bad, get it altered. Enter Parliament.

VAGRET. Alas, if I were a deputy, it is probable that I should be like the rest; instead of thinking of such matters I should think of nothing but calculating the probable duration of the Government.

THE PRESIDENT [his box under his arm] In that case—is the doorkeeper—

VAGRET [touching a bell] He will come. Then it's Monsieur Mouzon who is appointed in my place?

THE PRESIDENT. It is Monsieur Mouzon.

VAGRET. Because he's the creature of a deputy, a Mondoubleau—

THE PRESIDENT. I cannot allow you to speak ill of Monsieur Mondoubleau—before my face.

VAGRET. You think you may perhaps have need of him.

THE PRESIDENT. Precisely. [The doorkeeper appears] Will you carry that to my hotel for me? The hotel by the station. You will easily recognize it; my sentry is at the door. [He hands the doorkeeper his boxes] Au revoir, my dear Vagret—no offence taken.

He goes. Vagret puts on his hat and also makes ready to go. Enter recorder and Etchepare.

THE RECORDER. You are going, your honor?

VAGRET. Yes.

THE RECORDER. You won't have any objection, then, if I bring Etchepare in here? He's in the corridor, waiting for the formalities of his release—and he complains he's an object of curiosity to everyone.

VAGRET. Of course!

THE RECORDER. I'll tell them to bring his wife here too when she leaves the record office.

VAGRET. Very well.

THE RECORDER. I am just going to warn the warders—but the woman Etchepare can't be released immediately.

VAGRET. Why?

THE RECORDER. She's detained in connection with another case. She's charged with abusing a magistrate in the exercise of his duty.

VAGRET. Is that magistrate Monsieur Mouzon?

THE RECORDER. Yes, Monsieur.

VAGRET. I will try to arrange that.

THE RECORDER. Good-day, your honor.

VAGRET. Good-day.

SCENE II.

THE RECORDER [at the door] Etchepare—come in. You had better wait here for your final discharge. It won't take much longer.

ETCHEPARE. Thank you, Monsieur.

THE RECORDER. Well, there you are, then, acquitted, my poor fellow! There's one matter done with.

ETCHEPARE. It's finished as far as justice is concerned, Monsieur; it isn't finished for me. I'm acquitted, it's true, but my life is made miserable.

THE RECORDER. You didn't know—

ETCHEPARE. That's it.

THE RECORDER. It's a long time ago—you'll forgive her.

ETCHEPARE. Things like that, Monsieur—a Basque never forgives them. It's as though a thunderbolt had struck me to the heart. And all the misfortune that's befallen us—it's she who is the cause—God has avenged himself. Everything's over.

THE RECORDER [after a pause] I am sorry for you with all my heart.

ETCHEPARE. Thank you, Monsieur. [A pause] Since you are so kind, Monsieur, will you allow my mother, who's there in the corridor, waiting for me, to come and speak to me?

THE RECORDER. I'll send her in to you. Good-bye.

ETCHEPARE. Good-bye.

SCENE III:—The recorder goes out. Enter Etchepare's mother.

ETCHEPARE [pressing his mother's head against his breast] Poor old mother—how the misery of these three months has changed you!

THE MOTHER. My poor boy, how you must have suffered!

ETCHEPARE. That woman!

THE MOTHER. Yes, they've just been telling me.

ETCHEPARE. For ten years I've lived with that thief—that wretched woman! How she lied! Ah! When I heard that judge say to her, "You were convicted of theft and complicity with your lover," and when, before all those people, she owned to it—I tell you, mummy, I thought the skies were falling on my head—and when she admitted she'd been that man's mistress—I don't know just what happened—nor which I would have killed soonest—the judge who said such things so calmly or her who admitted them with her back turned to me. And then I was on the point of confessing myself guilty—I, an innocent man—in order not to learn any more—to get away—but I thought of you and the children! [A long pause] Come! We've got to make up our minds what we're going to do. You left them at home?

THE MOTHER. No. I had to send them to our cousin at Bayonne. We've no longer got a home—we've nothing—we are ruined. Besides, I've got a horror of this place now. The women edge away and make signs to one another when I meet them, and in the church they leave me all alone in the middle of an empty space. Already—I had to take the children away from school.

ETCHEPARE. My God!

THE MOTHER. No one would speak to them. One day Georges picked a quarrel with the biggest, and they fought, and as Georges got the better of it, the other, to revenge himself, called him the son of a gallows-bird.

ETCHEPARE. And Georges?

THE MOTHER. He came home crying and wouldn't go out of doors. It was then that I sent them away to Bayonne.

ETCHEPARE. That's what we'll do. Go away. We'll go and fetch them. To-morrow or to-night I shall be with you again. There are emigration companies there—boats to America—they'll send all four of us—they'll give us credit for the voyage on account of the children.

THE MOTHER. And when they ask for their mother—

ETCHEPARE [after a pause] You'll tell them she's dead.

SCENE IV:—Yanetta is shown in.

YANETTA [to someone outside] Very good, Monsieur. [The door is closed]

THE MOTHER [without looking at Yanetta] Then I'll go.

ETCHEPARE [the same] Yes. I shall see you again to-night or down there to-morrow.

THE MOTHER. Very well.

ETCHEPARE. Directly you get there you'll go and find out about the day and hour.

THE MOTHER. Very well.

ETCHEPARE. Till to-morrow then.

THE MOTHER. To-morrow. [She goes out without glancing at Yanetta]

YANETTA [takes a few steps towards her husband, falls on her knees, and clasps her hands. In a low voice] Forgive me!

ETCHEPARE. Never!

YANETTA. Don't say never!

ETCHEPARE. Was the judge lying?

YANETTA. No—he wasn't lying.

ETCHEPARE. You wretched thing!

YANETTA. Yes, I am a wretched thing! Forgive me!

ETCHEPARE. Kill you rather! I could kill you!

YANETTA. Yes, yes! But forgive me!

ETCHEPARE. You're just a loose woman—a loose woman from Paris, with no honor, no shame, no honesty even!

YANETTA. Yes! Insult me—strike me!

ETCHEPARE. For ten years you have been lying to me!

YANETTA. Oh, how I wished I could have told you everything! Oh, how many times I began that dreadful confession! I never had courage enough. I was always afraid of your anger, Pierre, and of the pain I should cause you—I saw you were so happy!

ETCHEPARE. You came from up there, fresh from your vice, fresh from prison, and you chose me to be your gull.

YANETTA. My God, to think he believes that!

ETCHEPARE. You brought me the leavings of a swindler—the leavings of a swindler—and you stole, in my house, the place of an honest woman! Your lies have brought the curse of God on my family and it's you who are the cause of everything. The misfortune that's just befallen us, it's you who are the cause of it, I tell you! You're a pest, accursed, damned! Don't say another word to me! Don't speak to me!

YANETTA. Have you no pity, Pierre? Do you suppose I'm not suffering?

ETCHEPARE. If you are suffering you've deserved it! You haven't suffered enough yet. But what had I ever done to you that you should choose me for your victim? What did I ever do that I should have to bear what I'm suffering? You've made me a coward—you've lowered me almost to your own level—I ought to have been able to put you out of my mind and my heart already! And I can't! And I'm suffering torture, terrible torture—for I'm suffering through the love I once had for you. You—you were everything to me for ten years—my whole life. You've been everything, everything! And now the one hope left me is that I may forget you!

YANETTA. Oh, forgive me!

ETCHEPARE. Never! Never!

YANETTA. Don't say that word—only God has the right to say—never! I will come back to you. I'll be only like the head servant—no, the lowest if you like! I won't take my place in the home again until you tell me to.

ETCHEPARE. We have no house; we have no home. Nothing is left now! And I tell you again it's your fault—and it's because you used to be there, in the mother's place, my mother's place, you, a lie and a sacrilege—it's because of that that misfortune has overtaken us!

YANETTA. I swear to you I'd make you forget it all in time—I'd be so humble, so devoted, so repentant. And wherever you go I shall follow you. Pierre—think, your children still need me.

ETCHEPARE. My children! You shall never see them again! You shall never speak to them. I won't have you kiss them. I won't have you even touch them!

YANETTA [changing her tone] Ah, no, not that, not that! The children! No, you are wrong there! You can deprive me of everything—you can put every imaginable shame upon me—you can force me to beg my bread—I'll do it willingly. You needn't look at me—you needn't speak to me except to abuse me—you can do anything, anything you like. But my children, my children—they are mine, the fruit of my body—they are still part of me—they are blood of my blood and bone of my bone forever. You might cut off one of my arms, and my arm would be a dead thing, and no part of myself any more, but you can't stop my children being my children.

ETCHEPARE. You have made yourself unworthy to keep them.

YANETTA. Unworthy! What has unworthiness to do with it? Have I ever failed in my duty to them? Have I been a bad mother? Answer me! I haven't, have I? Well then, if I haven't been a bad mother, my rights over them are as great as ever they were! Unworthy! I might be a thousand times more guilty—more unworthy, as you call it—but neither you, nor the law, nor the priests, nor God himself would have the right to take them from me. I have been to blame as a wife, it's possible, but as a mother I've nothing to reproach myself with. Well then—well then—no one can steal them from me! And you, who could think of such a thing, you're a wretch! Yes, it's to avenge yourself that you want to part me from them! You're just a coward! Just a man! There's no fatherhood left in your heart—you don't think of them. Yes—you are lying—I tell you, you are lying! When you say I'm not worthy to bring them up you're lying! It's only a saying—only words. You know it isn't true—you know I've nourished them, cared for them, loved them, consoled them, and I have taught them to say their prayers every night, and I would go on doing so. You know that no other woman will ever fill my place—but that makes no difference to you. You forget them—you want to punish me, so you want to take them from me. I'm justified in saying to you that it's an act of cowardly wickedness and a vile piece of vengeance! Ah! The children! You want to gamble with them now. No—to take them away from me—think, Pierre, think; it isn't possible, what you are saying!

ETCHEPARE. You are right; I am revenging myself! What you think an impossibility is done already. My mother has taken the children and gone away with them.

YANETTA. I shall find them again.

ETCHEPARE. America is a big country.

YANETTA. I shall find them again!

ETCHEPARE. Then I shall tell them why I have taken them away from you!

YANETTA. Never! Never that! I'll obey you, but swear—

The recorder enters.

THE RECORDER. Etchepare, come and sign your discharge. You will be released at once.

YANETTA. Wait a moment, Monsieur, wait a moment. [To Etchepare] I agree to separation if I must. I will disappear—you will never hear of me again. But in return for this wicked sacrifice swear solemnly that you will never tell them.

ETCHEPARE. I swear.

YANETTA. You swear never to tell them anything that may lessen their affection for me?

ETCHEPARE. I swear.

YANETTA. Promise me too—I beg you, Pierre—in the name of our happiness and my misery—promise to keep me fresh in their memory—let them pray for me, won't you?

ETCHEPARE. I swear it.

YANETTA. Then go—my life is done with.

ETCHEPARE. Good-bye.

He goes out with the recorder. At the door the latter meets Mouzon.

THE RECORDER [to Etchepare] They are coming to show you the way out.

THE RECORDER [to Mouzon] The woman Etchepare is there.

MOUZON. Ah, she's there. Monsieur Vagret has been speaking of her. Well, I withdraw my complaint; I ask nothing better than that she shall be set at liberty. Now that I am a Councillor I don't want to be coming back from Pau every week for the examination. Proceed with the necessary formalities.

SCENE V:—Mouzon, Yanetta, the recorder.

MOUZON. Well—in consideration of the time you have been in custody, I am willing that you should be set at liberty—provisional liberty. I may, perhaps, even withdraw my complaint if you express regret for having insulted me.

YANETTA [calmly] I do not regret having insulted you.

MOUZON. Do you want to go back to prison?

YANETTA. My poor man, if you only knew how little it matters to me whether I go to prison or not!

MOUZON. Why?

YANETTA. Because I have nothing left, neither house, nor home, nor husband, nor children. [She looks at him] And—I think—I think—

MOUZON. You think?

YANETTA. I think it is you who are the cause of all the trouble.

MOUZON. You are both acquitted, aren't you? What more do you ask?

YANETTA. We have been acquitted, it is true. But all the same, I am no longer an honest woman—neither to my husband, nor to my children, nor to the world.

MOUZON. If anyone reproaches you with the penalty inflicted upon you formerly, if anyone makes any illusion to the time you have spent in custody under remand, you have the right to prosecute the offender in the courts. He will be punished.

YANETTA. Well! It is because someone reproached me with that old conviction that my husband has taken my children from me. That someone is a magistrate. Can I have him punished?

MOUZON. No.

YANETTA. Why not? Because he is a magistrate?

MOUZON. No. Because he is the law.

YANETTA. The law! [Violently] Then the law is wicked, wicked!

MOUZON. Come, no shouting, no insults, please. [To the recorder] Have you finished? Then go to the office and have an order made out for her discharge.

YANETTA. I'm no scholar; I've not studied the law in books, like you, and perhaps for that very reason I know better than you what is just and what is not. And I want to ask you a plain question: How is the law going to give me back my children and make up to me for the harm it's done me?

MOUZON. The law owes you nothing.

YANETTA. The law owes me nothing! Then what are you going to do—you, the judge?

MOUZON. A magistrate is not responsible.

YANETTA. Ah, you are not responsible! So you can arrest people just as you like, just when you fancy, on a suspicion or even without a suspicion; you can bring shame and dishonor on their families; you can torture the unhappy, ferret into their past lives, expose their misfortunes, dig up forgotten offences, offences which have been atoned for and which go back to ten years ago; you can make use of your skill, your tricks and lies, and your cruelty to send a man to the foot of the scaffold, and worse still, you can drive people into taking a mother's children away from her—and after that you say, like Pontius Pilate, that you aren't responsible! Not responsible! Perhaps you aren't responsible in the eyes of this law of yours, since you tell me you aren't, but in the eyes of pure and simple justice, the justice of decent people, the justice of God, before that I swear you are responsible, and that is why I am going to call you to account!

She sees on Mouzon's desk the dagger which he uses as a paper-knife. He turns his back on her. She seizes the knife and puts it down again.

MOUZON. I order you to get out of here.

YANETTA. Listen to me. For the last time I ask you—what do you think you can do to make up to me—to give me back all I've lost through your fault; what are you going to do to lessen my misery, and how do you propose to give me back my children?

MOUZON. I have nothing to say to you. I owe you nothing.

YANETTA. You owe me nothing! You owe me more than life—more than everything. My children I shall never see again. What you've taken from me is the happiness of every moment of the day—their kisses at night—the pride I felt in watching them grow up. Never, never again shall I hear them call me "mother." It's as though they were dead—it's as though you had killed them. [She seizes the knife] Yes! That's your work; it's you bad judges have done it; you have nearly made a criminal of an innocent man, and you force an honest woman, a mother—to become a criminal!

She stabs him. He falls.

CURTAIN.

THE END