robbed us. They have deprived us of our land and of the air; they have destroyed our treasures which have been created by the genius of our people, and now we would cast our best men into their jaws! What does that mean? What will remain of us? Let them kill us all, let our land be turned into a waste desert, let all living creatures be burned to death, but as long as he lives, Belgium is alive! What is Belgium without him? Oh, do not be silent, mother! Tell him!

Silence.

EMIL GRELIEU

Somewhat sternly.

Calm yourself, Pierre!

JEANNE

Yesterday I—no, Pierre, that isn't what I was going to say—I don't know anything about it. How could I know? But yesterday I—it is hard to get vegetables, and even bread, here—so I went to town, and for some reason we did not go in that direction, but nearer the field of battle—. How strange it is that we found ourselves there! And there I saw them coming—

EMIL GRELIEU

Whom?

JEANNE

Our soldiers. They were coming from there—where the battle raged for four days. There were not many of them—about a hundred or two hundred. But we all—there were so many people in the streets—we all stepped back to the wall in order to make way for them. Emil, just think of it; how strange! They did not see us, and we would have been in their way! They were black from smoke, from mud, from dried blood, and they were swaying from fatigue. They were all thin—as consumptives. But that is nothing, that is all nothing. Their eyes—what was it, Emil? They did not see their surroundings, they still reflected that which they had seen there—fire and smoke and death—and what else? Some one said: "Here are people returning from hell." We all bowed to them, we bowed to them, but they did not see that either. Is that possible, Emil?

EMIL GRELIEU

Yes, Jeanne, that is possible.

PIERRE

And he will go to that inferno?

Silence. Emil Grelieu walks over to his wife and kisses her hand. She looks at his head with a smile. Suddenly she rises.

JEANNE

Forgive me; there is something else I must say—

She moves quickly and lightly, but suddenly, as though stumbling over an invisible obstacle, falls on one knee. Then she tries to rise, kneels, pale and still smiling, bending to one side. They rush over to her and lift her from the ground.

PIERRE

Mamma! Mamma!

EMIL GRELIEU

You have a headache? Jeanne, my dearest, what ails you?

She pushes them aside, stands up firmly, trying to conceal her nervousness.

JEANNE

What is it? What? Don't trouble, Emil! My head? No, no! My foot slipped—you know, the one that pained me. You see, I can walk now.

EMIL GRELIEU

A glass of water, Pierre.

JEANNE

What for? How absurd!

But Pierre had already gone out. Jeanne sits down, hangs her head, as one guilty, endeavoring not to look into his eyes.

JEANNE

What an excitable youth—your Pierre! Did you hear what he said?

EMIL GRELIEU

Significantly.

Jeanne!

JEANNE

What? No, no—why do you look at me this way? No—I am telling you.

Pierre brings her water, but Jeanne does not drink it.

JEANNE

Thank you, Pierre, but I don't want it.

Silence.

How fragrant the flowers are. Pierre, please give me that rose—yes, that one. Thank you. How fresh it is, Emil, and what a fine fragrance—come over here, Emil!

Emil Grelieu goes over to her and kisses the hand in which she holds the rose. Looks at her.

JEANNE

Lowering her hand.

No; I have asked for this flower simply because its fragrance seems to me immortal—it is always the same—as the sky. How strange it is, always the same. And when you bring it close to your face, and close to your eyes, it seems to you that there is nothing except this red rose and the blue sky. Nothing but the red rose and the distant, pale—very pale—blue sky....

EMIL GRELIEU

Pierre! Listen to me, my boy! People speak of this only at night, when they are alone with their souls—and she knows it, but you do not know it yet. Don't you know it, Jeanne?

JEANNE

Trembling, opening her eyes.

Yes, I know, Emil.

EMIL GRELIEU

The life of the poet does not belong to him. The roof over the heads of people, which shelters them—all that is a phantom for me, and my life does not belong to me. I am always far away, not here—I am always where I am not. You think of finding me among the living, while I am dead; you are afraid of finding me in death, mute, cold, doomed to decay, while I live and sing aloud from my grave. Death which makes people mute, which leaves the imprint of silence upon the bravest lips, restores the voice to the poet. Dead, I speak more loudly than alive. Dead, I am alive! Am I—just think of it, Pierre, my boy,—am I to fear death when in my most persistent searches I could not find the boundary between life and death, when in my feelings I mix life and death into one—as two strong, rare kinds of wine? Just think of it, my boy!

Silence. Emil Grelieu looks at his son, smiling. Pierre has covered his face with his hands. The woman is apparently calm. She turns her eyes from her weeping son to her husband.

PIERRE

Uncovering his face.

Forgive me, father!

JEANNE

Take this rose, Pierre, and when it fades and falls apart tear down another rose—it will have the same fragrance as this one. You are a foolish little boy, Pierre, but I am also foolish, although Emil is so kind that he thinks differently. Will you be in the same regiment, Emil?

EMIL GRELIEU

No, hardly, Jeanne.

PIERRE

Father, it is better that we be in the same regiment. I will arrange it, father—will you permit me? And I will teach you how to march—. You know, I am going to be your superior officer.

EMIL GRELIEU

Smiling.

Very well.

JEANNE

Goes out singing in a low voice.

"Only the halo of the arts is crowning—law, liberty, and the King." Who is that? Ah, you! Look, Pierre, here is the girl you wished to see. Come in, come in, my dear child! Don't be afraid, come in! You know him. That's my husband. He is a very good man and will do you no harm. And this is my son, Pierre. Give him your hand.

A girl enters; she is frail, very pale, and beautiful. She wears a black dress, her hair is combed neatly, and she is modest in her demeanor. Her eyes reflect fright and sorrow. She is followed by the chambermaid, Silvina, a kind, elderly woman in a white cap; by Madame Henrietta, and another woman in the service of the Grelieu household. They stop at the threshold and watch the girl curiously. The elder woman is weeping as she looks at her.

GIRL

Stretching forth her hand to Pierre.

Oh, that is a soldier! Be so kind, soldier, tell me how to go to Lonua. I have lost my way.

PIERRE

Confused.

I do not know, Mademoiselle.

GIRL

Looking at everybody mournfully.

Who knows? It is time for me to go.

JEANNE

Cautiously and tenderly leading her to a seat.

Sit down, child, take a rest, my dear, give your poor feet a rest. Pierre, her feet are wounded, yet she wants to walk all the time.

ELDERLY WOMAN

I wanted to stop her, Monsieur Pierre, but it is impossible to stop her. If we close the door before her the poor girl beats her head against the