GUÉRIN [_interested_]. Tell me. Am I not your friend?
FRANÇOISE. Seriously, Monsieur, you know him very well: how could he be in love with me? Is it even possible? He allows one to love him, and I ask nothing more.
FRANÇOISE. Only to be allowed to continue. [_Gesture from Guérin._] I am not like other women. I don't ask for rights; but I do demand tenderness, and consideration. He is free, I am not--I'll admit that. But I don't mind, I only hope that we may continue as we are!
GUÉRIN. Have you some presentiment, Madame?
FRANÇOISE. I am afraid, Monsieur. My happiness is not of the proud, demonstrative variety, it is a kind of happiness that is continually trembling for its safety. If I told you--
FRANÇOISE. Later! How I pity any one who loves and has to suffer for it!
FRANÇOISE. I am not on the side of the jealous, of the betrayed--
GUÉRIN [_aside, sympathetically_]. Poor little woman! [_With great sincerity._] Then you are not sure of him?
FRANÇOISE [_more and more excited_]. He is Marcel! Admit for a moment that he loves me to-day--I want so to believe it! To-morrow will he love me? Does he himself know whether he will love me then? Isn't he at the mercy of a whim, a passing fancy--of the weather, or the appearance of the first woman he happens to meet? I am only twenty, and I am not always as careful as I might be. Happiness is so difficult!
GUÉRIN. Yes, it is. [_To himself._] It is! [_To Françoise._] Perhaps you are conscientious, too sincere?
FRANÇOISE. I feel that; yes, I think I am, but every time I try to hide my affection from him, he becomes indifferent, almost mean--as if he were glad to be relieved of a duty--of being good!
FRANÇOISE. You see, Marcel can't get used to the idea that his other life is over, dead and buried, that he's married for good--that he must do as others do. I do my best and tell him, but my very presence only reminds him of his duties as a husband. For instance [_interrupting herself_]. Here I am telling you all this--
FRANÇOISE [_bitterly_]. He likes to go out alone at night, without me. He knows me well enough to understand that his being away makes me very unhappy, and as a matter of form, of common courtesy, he asks me to go with him. I try to reason and convince myself that he doesn't mean what he says, but I can't help feeling sincerely happy when once in a while I do accept his invitation. But the moment we leave the house I realize my mistake. Then he pretends to be in high spirits, but I know all the time he is acting a part; and when we come home again he lets drop without fail some hint about having lost his liberty; he says he took me out in a moment of weakness, that he really wanted to be alone.