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François—(muttering to himself)—

Blind! Blind! Blind!

Then he ran alone, when the light had passed;

The sun had set and the night fell fast;

The rat lay down in the sewer at last.

Blind!

(A beam of the sunset has come to rest on the glass of wine that François holds in his hand. The wine glitters and sparkles. François looks at it, starts, and drops the glass. The wine runs over the table.)

Destage—(animatedly) Fifteen—twenty years ago he sat where you sit, small, heavy-bearded, black-eyed—always sleepy-looking.

François—(his eyes closed—his voice trailing off) Always sleepy, sleepy, slee—

Chandelle—(dreamily) He was a poet unsinging, crowned with wreaths of ashes. (His voice rings with just a shade of triumph.)

François—(talking in his sleep) Ah, well, Chandelle, are you witty tonight, or melancholy or stupid or drunk?

Chandelle—Messieurs—it grows late. I must be off. Drink all of you. (enthusiastically) Drink until you cannot talk or walk or see. (He throws a bill on the table.)

Destage—Young Monsieur?