You did not survive.

CLAIRE :

You bitch! Repeat. Madame must have her tea.

SOLANGE:

I've just been through such a lot. . . .

CLAIRE :

Madame will have her tea. . . .

SOLANGE:

Madame will have her tea. . .

CLAIRE:

Because she must sleep. . . .

SOLANGE:

Because she must sleep. . . .

CLAIRE:

And I must stay awake.

SOLANGE:

And I must stay awake.

CLAIRE :

Don't interrupt again. I repeat. Are you listening? Are you obeying? I repeat: My tea!

SOLANGE:

But. . . .

CLAIRE:

I say: my tea.

SOLANGE:

But, Madame.

CLAIRE:

Good. Continue.

SOLANGE:

But, Madame, it's cold.

CLAIRE:

I'll drink it anyway. Let me have it. And you've poured it into the best, the finest tea set. 

[She takes the cup and drinks]

SOLANGE:

The orchestra is playing brilliantly. The attendant is raising the red velvet curtain. He bows. Madame is descending the stairs. Her furs brush against the green plants. Madame steps into the car. Monsieur is whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

She would like to smile, but she is dead. She rings the bell. The porter yawns. He opens the door. Madame goes up the stairs. She enters her apartment—but, Madame is dead.

Her two maids are alive: they've just risen up, free, from Madame's icy form. All the maids were present at her side—not they themselves, but rather the hellish agony of their names.

And all that remains of them to float about Madame's airy corpse is the delicate perfume of the holy maidens which they were in secret. We are beautiful, joyous, drunk, and free!

Claire takes her own life to kill the Madame leaving Solange alone. Solange has lost her identity as a sister, a caretaker and will soon lose her identity as a maid when the Madame returns. Solange is free from her identities, but this traps her in a state of non-being. This fate is worse than death.