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