Gil. And along with them will remain the fatal story.
Marg. Why?
Gil. [indicating his book]. Because they also appear in my book.
Marg. In where?
Gil. In my novel.
Marg. What?
Gil. Our letters—yours and mine.
Marg. Where did you get your own? I've got them in my possession. Ah, so you, too, made a rough draft?
Gil. Nothing of the kind! I only copied them before mailing. I didn't want to lose them. There are some in my book which you didn't even get. They were, in my opinion, too beautiful for you. You wouldn't have understood them at all.
Marg. Merciful heavens! If this is so—[turning the leaves of Gilbert's book]. Yes, yes, it is so. Why, it's just like telling the world that we two—Merciful heavens! [Feverishly turning the leaves.] Is the letter you sent me the morning after the first night also—
Gil. Surely. That was brilliant.
Marg. This is horrible. Why, this is going to create a European sensation. And Clement—My God; I'm beginning to hope that he will not come back. I am ruined! And you along with me. Wherever you are, he'll be sure to find you and blow your brains out like a mad dog.
Gil. [pocketing his book]. Insipid comparison!
Marg. How did you hit upon such an insane idea? To publish the correspondence of a woman whom, in all sincerity, you professed to have loved! Oh, you're no gentleman.
Gil. Quite charming. Haven't you done the same?
Marg. I'm a woman.
Gil. Do you take refuge in that now?
Marg. Oh, it's true. I have nothing to reproach you with. We were made for one another. Yes, Clement was right. We're worse than those women who appear in flesh-colored tights. Our most sacred feelings, our pangs—everything—we make copy of everything. Pfui! Pfui! It's sickening. We two belong to one another. Clement would only be doing what is right if he drove me away. [Suddenly.] Come, Amandus.
Gil. What is it?
Marg. I accept your proposal.
Gil. What proposal?
Marg. I'm going to cut it with you. [Looks for her hat and cloak.]
Gil. Eh? What do you mean?
Marg. [very much excited; puts her hat on tightly]. Everything can be as it was. You've said it. It needn't be the Isar—well, I'm ready.
Gil. Sheer madness! Cut it—what's the meaning of this? Didn't you yourself say a minute ago that he'd find me anywhere. If you're with me, he'll have no difficulty in finding you, too. Wouldn't it be better if each—
Marg. Wretch! Now you want to leave me in a lurch! Why, only a few minutes ago you were on your knees before me. Have you no conscience?
Gil. What's the use? I am a sick, nervous man, suffering from hypochondria. [Margaret at the window utters a cry.]
Gil. What's up? What will the general's widow think?
Marg. It's he. He's coming back.
Gil. Well, then—
Marg. What? You intend to go?
Gil. I didn't come here to pay the baron a visit.
Marg. He'll encounter you on the stairs. That would be worse. Stay. I refuse to be sacrificed alone.
Gil. Now, don't lose your senses. Why do you tremble like that? It's quite absurd to believe that he's already gone through both novels. Calm yourself. Remove your hat. Off with your cloak. [Assists her.] If he catches you in this frame of mind he can't help but suspect.
Marg. It's all the same to me. Better now than later. I can't bear waiting and waiting for the horrible event. I'm going to tell him everything right away.
Gil. Everything?
Marg. Yes. And while you are still here. If I make a clean breast of everything now maybe he'll forgive me.
Gil. And me—what about me? I have a higher mission in the world, I think, than to suffer myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous baron. [The bell rings.]
Marg. It's he! It's he.
Gil. Understand, you're not to breathe a word.
Marg. I've made up my mind.
Gil. Indeed, have a care. For, if you do, I shall sell my hide at a good price. I shall hurl such naked truths at him that he'll swear no baron heard the like of them.
Clem. [entering, somewhat surprised, but quite cool and courteous]. Oh, Mr. Gilbert! Am I right?
Gil. The very same, Baron. I'm traveling south, and I couldn't repress the desire to pay my respects to madame.
Clem. Ah, indeed. [Pause.] Pardon me, it seems I've interrupted your conversation. Pray, don't let me disturb you.
Gil. What were we talking about just now?
Clem. Perhaps I can assist your memory. In Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked about your books.
Gil. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was speaking about my new novel.
Clem. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? Or—let me see—is it distilled?
Gil. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about our life-experiences.
Clem. H'm. That's good to know.
Gil. Yes, if you're painting the character of Nero, in my opinion it's absolutely necessary that you should have set fire to Rome—
Clem. Naturally.
Gil. From what source should a writer derive his inspiration if not from himself? Where should he go for his models if not to the life which is nearest to him? [Margaret becomes more and more uneasy.]
Clem. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such people know anything—[Sharply.] In decent society, sir, that's the same as compromising a woman!
Gil. I don't know whether I belong to decent society or not, but, in my humble opinion, it's the same as ennobling a woman.
Clem. Indeed.
Gil. The essential thing is, does it really hit the mark! In a higher sense, what does it matter if the public does know that a woman was happy in this bed or that?
Clem.
