between the lovers, but rather to destroying one. In
the second act there still seems to be no obstacle of any sort. Helene's
year of widowhood is nearly over; she and Philippe are presently to be
married; all is harmony, adoration, and security. In the last scene of
the act, a cloud no bigger than a man's hand appears on the horizon. We
find that Gotte des Trembles, Helene's bosom friend, is also in love
with Philippe, and is determined to let him know it. But Philippe
resists her blandishments with melancholy austerity, and when the
curtain falls on the second act, things seem to be perfectly safe and in
order. Helene a widow, and Philippe austere--what harm can Gotte
possibly do?

The fact is, M. Donnay is carefully keeping a secret from us. Philippe
is not Helene's first lover; her son, Georges, is not the child of her
late husband; and Gotte, and Gotte alone, knows the truth. Had we also
been initiated from the outset (and nothing would have been easier or
more natural--three words exchanged between Gotte and Helene would have
done it) we should have been at no loss to foresee the impending drama,
and the sense of irony would have tripled the interest of the
intervening scenes. The effect of M. Donnay's third act is not a whit
more forcible because it comes upon us unprepared. We learn at the
beginning that Philippe's austerity has not after all been proof against
Gotte's seductions; but it has now returned upon him embittered by
remorse, and he treats Gotte with sternness approaching to contumely.
She takes her revenge by revealing Helene's secret; he tells Helene that
he knows it; and she, putting two and two together, divines how it has
come to his knowledge. This long scene of mutual reproach and remorseful
misery is, in reality, the whole drama, and might have been cited in
Chapter XIV as a fine example of a peripety. Helene enters Philippe's
studio happy and serene, she leaves it broken-hearted; but the effect of
the scene is not a whit greater because, in the two previous acts, we
have been studiously deprived of the information that would have led us
vaguely to anticipate it.

To sum up this question of secrecy: the current maxim, "Never keep a
secret from your audience," would appear to be an over-simplification of
a somewhat difficult question of craftsmanship. We may agree that it is
often dangerous and sometimes manifestly foolish to keep a secret; but,
on the other hand, there is certainly no reason