[…] there is the sound of a woman laughing, low, on the P/A.
STANISLAWA paces, sipping. The WOMAN laughs again, closer. Further off a man begins to protest mildly.
ROBESPIERRE: (Voice-over.) Not now, Léo… no, no, no!... Eléonore!
The WOMAN’s laughter, low and close and seductive.
STANISLAWA: (Voice-over.) Oh we know what You think, my dear Robespierre!
She imitates his dry voice and precise diction, goes to her table.
STANISLAWA: (Voice-over.) “Manifestations of love during the daylight are in the worst possible taste!”
ROBESPIERRE: Did I say that?
STANISLAWA bends over the table, writing rapidly.
ROBESPIERRE: (Laughs gently.) Fine principles from a fit man. From a weak wreck, less persuasive.
STANISLAWA: On the contrary, my dear, you’re obviously recovering.
ROBESPIERRE: You’d rather have me on my back?
STANISLAWA: Eléonore, sadly – At least I see you then. (Looks at the page, pencil between her teeth.) … at least I see you then… I see you then… (Chews the end of the pencil.)
ROBESPIERRE enters in a dressing gown.
ROBESPIERRE: My poor Eléonore…
At the loving concern in his voice STANISLAWA half-turns in her chair with an involuntary spasm of anguish. She pulls and ugly face, dismissing the feeling.
ROBESPIERRE: My dear. I’m sorry. (A groaning sigh.) I really believed it. A year of intense revolutionary work, then back to privacy and you… instead of which… (ROBESPIERRE exits.)
STANISLAWA: (Through her teeth.) Not… important. (Released, her mind drifts back to her work.) Not important. (A sudden decision.) Get her off. (She picks up her pencil, bends over the page, mutters to herself.) Farewell, Eléonore.