t out an extra yourself!

SCHOEN. (With passionate indignation.) He had no moral sense! (Suddenly
controlling himself again.) Paris in revolution--?

ALVA. Our editors act as though they'd been struck. Everything has
stopped dead.

SCHOEN. That's got to help me over this! Now if only the police would
come. The minutes are worth more than gold. (The bell rings in the
corridor.)

ALVA. There they are-- (Schoen starts to the door. Lulu jumps up.)

LULU. Wait, you've got blood--

SCHOEN. Where?

LULU. Wait, I'll wipe it. (Sprinkles her handkerchief with heliotrope
and wipes the blood from Schoen's hand.)

SCHOEN. It's your husband's blood.

LULU. It leaves no trace.

SCHOEN. Monster!

LULU. You will marry me, though. (The bell rings in the corridor.) Only
have patience, children. (Schoen goes out and returns with Escherich, a
reporter.)

ESCHERICH. (Breathless.) Allow me to--to introduce myself--

SCHOEN. You've run?

ESCHERICH. (Giving him his card.) From police headquarters. A suicide,
I understand.

SCHOEN. (Reads.) Fritz Escherich, correspondent of the "News and
Novelties." Come along.

ESCHERICH. One moment. (Takes out his note-book and pencil, looks
around the parlor, writes a few words, bows to Lulu, writes, turns to
the broken door, writes.) A kitchen-ax. (Starts to lift it.)

SCHOEN. (Holding him back.) Excuse me.

ESCHERICH. (Writing.) Door broken open with a kitchen-ax. (Examines the
lock.)

SCHOEN. (His hand on the door.) Look before you, my dear sir.

ESCHERICH. Now if you will have the kindness to open the door-- (Schoen
opens it. Escherich lets book and pencil fall, clutches at his hair.)
Merciful Heaven! God!!

SCHOEN. Look it all over carefully.

ESCHERICH. I can't look at it!

SCHOEN. (Snorting scornfully.) Then what did you come here for?

ESCHERICH. To--to cut up--to cut up his throat with a razor!

SCHOEN. Have you seen it all?

ESCHERICH. That must feel--

SCHOEN. (Draws the door to, steps to the writing-table.) Sit down. Here
is paper and pen. Write.

ESCHERICH. (Mechanically taking his seat.) I can't write--

SCHOEN. (Behind his chair.) Write! Persecution--mania....

ESCHERICH. (Writes.) Per-secu-tion--mania. (The bell rings in the
corridor.)

CURTAIN

ACT III

_A theatrical dressing-room, hung with red. Door upper right. Across
upper left corner, a Spanish screen. Centre, a table set endwise, on
which dance costumes lie. Chair on each side of th