Yes--at least that's what one tells oneself--perhaps one feels it, too.--It depends--more in the evening than the morning--more in March than October.--But the dread, the horror of it, is always there.--The weight of such love is like the weight of one's own coffin-lid.--And you soon discovered that, Pierre.--Then you began softly, gently, to bind me to you with glances and caresses that were like chains of roses!--Yes, and that I become maddened by roses as cats by valerian, that, too, you soon found out.--Then--then you began to speak to me of the lover's pavilion--all covered with roses--where your ancestors spent happy, pastoral hours in wooing their loves--the pavilion that had been waiting so long for a new mistress. You spoke of adorning it with beautiful hangings--of filling it full of roses. Oh you, you Pierre, how well you understood!--Do have some black coffee made for me! If the gardener can't do it, make it yourself! Please, please! Pierre. But, I tell you, I have to go back to mamma. Julia. Nowadays, you always "have to go back to mamma." Shall I tell you something--a big secret? You are tired of me! You want to get rid of me--only you don't know how! Pierre. Your notions are offensive, my dear. Julia. Pierre, I know my fate. I know I am doomed to the gutter. But not yet! Don't leave me yet! Care for me a little while longer--so the fall won't be too sudden.--Let me stay here as long as the roses bloom--here, where _he_ can't find me! Oh, if I leave this place I shall die of fear!--Nowhere else am I safe from those two great fists of his!--Pierre, Pierre, you don't know his fists--they're like two iron bolts!--You, too--beware of him! Pierre (_half to himself_). Why do you say that to me? Julia. He was always jealous of you. When you sent the hothouse roses in April, he became suspicious. Ever since then, he has continually had the notion of an admirer in his head. That was the danger-signal! Pierre, if he surmised--then you would be the first--and I would come afterward! Pierre, if you drive me to desperation, I'll give you up to him!---- Pierre. Are you mad? Julia. I'll write him a letter something like this: "If you want to find the traces of my flight, search the rubbish heap behind the lover's pavilion. Search for the faded petals of the roses upon which, night after night, Pierre and I celebrated our union. Search the highway for the bloody prints of my bare feet after he turned me out. Then search the dregs of the brothels where I found a refuge. And then--then avenge me!" Pierre. You'll do nothing of the kind, you-- (_Seizes her by the wrists._) Julia (_laughing_).