y was stolen. So there isn't a
vestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of my
own, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and
he is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon,
Solon! Such is fortune, and such is fame! You are fortunate,
Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded.

HENRIETTE. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a great success
in London and carried off the first prize?

MAURICE. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true, Adolphe?

ADOLPHE. It is true, but I have returned the prize.

HENRIETTE. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you are also
prevented from accepting any distinctions--like your friend?

ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes!

MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still
farther apart.

ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonely
with my success as you with your adversity. Think of it--that
people feel hurt by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly to be alive!

MAURICE. You say that! What am I then to say? It is as if my eyes
had been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape
of all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the room
I saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise both
of you, of course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here and
search for words because I don't know what to say to you. I ought
to defend myself, but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for it
protected me, at least, against the curious glances that pass
right through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress! You don't
love me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I care for you. To-
day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive.

(Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at a
table in the background.)

ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That you
have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in
some of the evening papers. And that puts an end to the whole
matter. Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to the
worst, you can write a new one. Leave Paris for a year and let
everything become forgotten. You who have exonerated mankind will
be exonerated yourself.

MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha!

ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, if
I ever did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of
looking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. When
I, w