_Madame P._ (_lays down book_). That is cruel! That is dreadful! I would never have acted so! _Nous autres femmes_ ... we ... oh! we believe, we trust blindly, we never analyse. No, I cannot finish this novel. A young man of good birth, handsome, clever, an officer in the army, declares his love to her in such exquisite language; and she—she has the heart to refuse him! No; she is no woman! Woman is a weak creature of impulse! We live only through the heart. And how easy it is to deceive us! We are willing to make all sacrifices for the man we love. If men deceive us—which, alas! happens very often—the blame lies not upon us, but upon them. They, for the most part, are cunning and deceitful.... We women are so loving, so trustful, so ready to believe everything, that only after bitter (_meditates_)—yes, bitter—experience we realise the immorality of the beings we adore. (_Silence._) But, no! Even after a betrayal, even after several betrayals, we are ready again to yield to impulse, to believe once more in the possibility of pure and honourable love! Yes! it is our fate! All the more so, when the whole thing takes place amid such poetical surroundings as in this novel: spring-time, flowers, a beautiful park, gurgling streams; he came to her attired for the hunt, the gun upon his shoulder, the hound at his feet, ah! But men ... how often do they abuse the exquisite tenderness of our loving hearts; they care not to know how much we suffer through them, we poor women! (_Silence._) Of course there _are_ women whose whole interest in life consists in vulgar, material considerations and household affairs. But that is prose, prose! Nothing shall make me regard it as anything but prose. There are even women who discuss various learned topics as if they were men; but I cannot recognise their womanhood. They may be clever; they may be learned; but instead of a heart they have a lump of ice. (_Silence._) When such ideas come into my mind, I always think of my Paul. Oh! how successful he will be with women! It is a joy to me in anticipation! How sweet is that thought for a mother! Oh! children! children! (_smells vinaigrette and rings bell. Enter footman._) _Footman._ Did madame ring? _Madame P._ Has your master come in yet? _Footman._ No, madame. _Madame P._ When he comes, say I wish to see him. _Footman._ Yes, madame. (_Exit._) _Madame P._ He is such a sensitive, nervous boy! He has inherited my temperament. He should be watched over and tenderly cared for. But what can I do? I have no fortune! After receiving such a high-class education, he is reduced to the necessity of serving in a Government office! All those head-clerks.... They do wear such extraordinary coats!... and he is so nervous, so nervous!... I believe that they all persecute him out of envy. (_Enter_ PAUL.) _Paul_ (_irreproachably dressed in summer costume, with an exhausted and somewhat affected air_). _Bonjour, Maman!_