MAURICE. Will you keep me company then?

HENRIETTE. With pleasure, if you care to have me.

MAURICE. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is strange, you
know, that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't place
it at the feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless when
you have not a woman.

HENRIETTE. You don't need to be without a woman--you?

MAURICE. Well, that's the question.

HENRIETTE. Don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hour
of success and fame?

MAURICE. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience of it.

HENRIETTE. You are a queer sort! At this moment, when you are the
most envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood. Perhaps your
conscience is troubling you because you have neglected that
invitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at the
milk shop?

MAURICE. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, and
even here I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings,
their well-grounded anger. My comrades in distress had the right
to demand my presence this evening. The good Madame Catherine had
a privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope was