SIMONE. Charming boy. But stories of that kind.... And you look so innocent, too! Do you know any more like it? PAUL (_suddenly grave_). Not of that description. But I will tell you a story of another kind, a true story, a tragic story. SIMONE. Did I ever tell you how I saw a woman run over by a train? Cut to pieces, literally, to pieces. So disagreeable. I'll tell you later. But now, what about your story? PAUL. Oh, it's nothing, nothing. SIMONE. But you promised to tell it me. PAUL. It's only a commonplace anecdote. A young man, poor but noble, with a name and a position to keep up. A few youthful follies, a mountain of debts, and no way out except the revolver. This is all dull and obvious enough. But now follows the interesting part of the story. He is about to take that way out, when he meets the woman of his dreams, the goddess, the angel, the ideal. He loves, and he must die without a word. (_He turns his face away from the Baronne, as though his emotion were too much for him, which indeed it is_.) SIMONE. Vicomte--Paul--this young man is you? PAUL (_solemnly_). He is. SIMONE. And the woman? PAUL. Oh, I can't, I mayn't tell you. SIMONE. The woman! Tell me, Paul. PAUL (_turning towards her and falling on his knees_). The woman, Simone, is you. Ah, but I had no right to say it. SIMONE (_quivering with emotion_). My Paul. (_She clasps his head to her bosom. A grimace of disgust contorts Paul's classical features. He endures Simone's caresses with a stoical patience_.) But what is this about a revolver? That is only a joke, Paul, isn't it? Say it isn't true. PAUL. Alas, Simone, too true. (_He taps his coat pocket_.) There it lies. To-morrow I have a hundred and seventy thousand francs to pay, or be dishonoured. I cannot pay the sum. A Barbazange does not survive dishonour. My ancestors were Crusaders, preux chevaliers to a man. Their code is mine. Dishonour for me is worse than death. SIMONE. Mon Dieu, Paul, how noble you are! (_She lays her hands on his shoulder, leans back, and surveys him at arm's length, a look of pride and anxious happiness on her face_.) PAUL (_dropping his eyes modestly_). Not at all. I was born noble, and noblesse oblige, as we say in our family. Farewell, Simone, I love you--and I must die. My last thought will be of you. (_He kisses her hand, rises to his feet, and makes as though to go_.) SIMONE (_clutching him by the arm_). No, Paul, no. You must not, shall not, do anything rash. A hundred and seventy thousand francs, did you say? It is paltry. Is there no one who could lend or give you the money? PAUL. Not a soul. Farewell, Simone. SIMONE. Stay, Paul. I hardly dare to ask it of you--you with such lofty ideas of honour--but would you ... from me? PAUL. Take money from a woman? Ah, Simone, tempt me no more. I might do an ignoble act. SIMONE. But from me, Paul, from me. I am not in your eyes a woman like any other woman, am I?